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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

California  ^tate  Library 

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of»iij  uiciiiijci.  <ji  uiiiucr  <jj.  uiie  j^cgisiature,  or  ot  tliis 
State,  for  his  per  diem,  allowance,  or  salary,  he  shall  be 
satisfied  that  such  member  or  officer  has  returned  all 
books  taken  out  of  the  Library  by  him,  and  has  settled 
all  accounts  for  injuring  such  books  or  otherwise. 

Sec.  15.  Books  may  be  taken  from  the  Library  by  the 
members  of  the  Legislature  and  its  officers  during  the 
session  of  the  same,  and  at  any  time  by  the  Governor  and 
the  officers  of  the  Executive  Department  of  this  State, 
who  are  required  to  keep  their  offices  at  the  seat  of 
government,  tlie  Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court,  the  At- 
torney-General and  the  Trustees  of  the  Library. 


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SEVEN    YEARS, 


AND    OTHER 


T  A.LES. 


BY 


JULIA    KAVANAGH, 

AUTHOR    OF 

NATHALIE,"   "ADELE,"   "THE    TWO    SICILIES, 

&c.  &c. 


THREE     VOLUMES     IN     ONE. 


NEW  YOEK: 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

549    &    561    BROADWAY. 

1872. 


?R 


SEVEN    YEARS. 


-•« . — •  — 


CHAPTER   I. 


Of  all  the  venerable  places  of  Pai-is,  the  Marais  may  be 
entitled  peer  and  prince.  Other  places  may  boast  antiquity 
more  remote ; — none  can  vie  with  the  recollections  of  past 
splendour  which  still  linger  around  this.  Here,  under  the 
reign  of  the  most  magnificent  monarch  of  France,  once  revelled 
the  gayest  and  most  luxurious  of  the  French  nobility.  Here 
they  raised  noble  and  enduring  mansions,  which  the  hand  of 
time  long  respected,  and  which  the  hammer  of  the  leveller 
now  shamelessly  pulls  down  one  after  the  other,  reckless  and 
regardless  of  the  liistorical  tokens  it  is  destroying ;  sweeping 
away  memorials  of  Louis  Quatorze,  whom  his  contemporaries 
styled  the  Great,  dwellings  still  haunted  by  the  frolics  of  nis 
nobles  and  the  gaieties  of  his  court  beauties,  and  consigning 
them  all  to  dust  and  oblivion  with  philosophic  indifference  and 
impartiality. 

The  Marais,  however,  is  not  all  pulled  down.  It  is  still 
celebrated  for  its  open  stately  streets,  which  trade  is  slowly  in- 
vading, for  its  large  hotels,  which  commerce  now  possesses,  and 
for  the  broad  airy  gardens  which  every  now  and  then  extend 
at  the  back  of  those  lordly-looking  abodes,  filling  the  whole 
neighbourhood  with  the  sweet  spring  fragrance  of  young 
lilac  trees,  or  the  rich  summer  perfume  of  invisible  roses  in 
bloom. 

In  one  of  the  finest  streets  of  the  Marais  there  stood  some 
years  ago  a  noble-looking  mansion,  which  answered  to  number 
two.  The  lofty  gateway  and  arches,  the  sculptured  windows, 
and  cast-iron  balconies  ;  the  high  slate-covered  roof  ant  the 
tall  star^ks  of  chimneys  that  topped  all,  like  the  battlements  of 
a  city,  bespoke  the  importance  of  this  dwelling.  Yet  through 
that   arched   gateway,  which   stood    ever  open,  appeared   un- 


4  SEVEN   TEARS. 

mistakeable  tokens  that  if  stone  and  mortar  were  stout  aa 
ever,  the  mutability  of  fortune  had  aifected  this  once  splendid 
abode.  Several  boards,  nailed  ou  the  wall  by  the  staircase, 
and  covered  with  painted  characters,  referred  you  to  the  various 
iuhabitants  of  the  mansion,  and  corresponded  to  other  sign- 
boards dangling  from  the  iron  balconies.  Lamps  were  to  be 
had  on  the  second  floor;  buhl  furniture  on  the  third;  a  lace- 
mender  tenanted  the  fourth  ;  the  lodgers  of  tlie  fifth  were  too 
humble  to  claim  public  attention  by  any  mural  inscription. 
They  were  satisfied  to  exist,  and  left  the  dignity  of  boards  and 
signs  to  their  betters. 

Every  Paris  house  is  built  round  a  ynrd,  and  the  more  an- 
cient the  house,  the  wider  this  yard  is:  the  rule  at  least  hag 
few  exceptions.  The  yard  or  court  of  this  house,  for  it  de- 
served the  name,  was  square,  paved,  aud  surrounded  with 
walls  and  windows,  out  of  which  various  heads  often  peeped, — 
heads  that  did  not  exactly  recall  the  aristocratic  type  or  the 
splendid  attire  of  the  courtiers  of  Louis  Quatorze.  Rough 
unshaved  faces  and  blue  blouses  for  the  men,  plain  white  caps 
aud  cotton  dresses  for  the  women,  made  tlie  contrast  as  strik- 
ing as  any  republican  heart  need  have  wished  it.  This  was 
indeed  the  democratic  part  of  the  abode;  it  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  substantial  and  decorous  tenants  of  the  second,  third, 
and  fourth  floors.  Two  mean,  dark,  and  modern  staircases 
led  to  the  various  lodgings  of  that  coiir,  which  Madame  Grand, 
the  portress  of  the  whole  liouse,  held  in  supreme  contempt, 
not  to  say  abhorrence  :  whereas  a  real  genuine  old  staircase, 
coeval  with  the  house  itself, — a  staircase  that  opened  near  the 
door  of  the  lodge  under  shelter  of  the  gateway, — conducted 
with  gentle  aud  easy  ascent  to  those  apartments  with  windows 
on  the  street,  which  had  Madame  Grand's  particular  favour,  aa 
being  tenanted  by  decent  people,  and  especially,  for  the  world 
is  the  same  all  the  world  over,  hy  people  of  substance. 

The  English  system  of  building  is  not  favourable  to  the  de- 
velopment of  staircase;  narrow,  wooden,  and  mean,  it  climbs 
up  two  floors  and  an  attic,  and,  having  done  what  it  had  to  do, 
it  stops.  It  may  be  covered  with  carpet  or  oil-cloth,  or  it  may 
not  be  covered  at  all, — a  mean  staircase  it  is,  and  will  be  ou  to 
the  end. 

The  continental  staircase  aims  at  grandeur ;  it  may  not 
always  attain  its  object,  but  a  sort  of  dignity  is  the  result  of 
the  attempt.  The  staircases  of  the  Marais,  and  especially 
when  they  claim  the  seventeenth  century  as  the  date  of  their 
existence,  are  famous   for   their   stateliness.     The  broad  and 


SEVEN    YEAKS.  0 

low  stone  steps  ascend  slowly,  guarded  by  iron  banisters  rich 
in  folinffe  and  renaissance  ornanicnts.  Such  a  staircase  was 
that  of  this  particular  house  :  too  grand  by  far  for  the  lamps 
on  the  second  floor,  for  the  buhl  furniture  on  the  third,  and 
the  lace-mending  business  on  tlie  fourth,  but  by  no  means  un- 
suited  to  the  quiet,  ^ady-like  tenant  of  the  premier  ctage, 
Madame  la  Roche. 

Madame  la  Roche  was  born  in  number  two,  like  her 
mother  and  her  mother's  mother  before  her  ;  for  this  house, 
which  was  ber  property,  always  descended  In  the  female  line, 
and  vn  number  two  Madame  la  Roche,  who  was  seventy  and 
more,  devoutly  hoped  to  live  and  die.  The  house  had  under- 
gone many  changes  in  passing  through  various  hands,  but  the 
handsome  suite  of  rooms  on  the  first  floor  had  remained  almost 
unaltered  since  they  were  first  fitted  up  and  furnished  for  the 
great-grandmother  of  Madame  la  Roche,  who  entered  them  a 
youthful  bride  of  seventeen. 

The  furniture  was  handsome,  substantial,  and  good,  and  a 
constitutional  indolence,  hereditary  in  the  lady  proprietresses 
of  the  place,  had  resisted  the  insidious  innovations  of  fashion. 
Accordingly  the  museum  of  Cluny  itself  scarcely  boasted  more 
treasures  in  carved  cabinets,  inlaid  tables,  precious  china,  and 
curiosities  of  all  sorts,  than  did  the  rooms  of  Madame  la 
Roche,  who  was  lazily  glad  to  be  possessed  of  so  many  valua- 
bles, but  who  in  reality,  and  save  for  the  sake  of  old  family 
associations,  did  not  care  one  rush  about  them  all. 

In  these  large,  roomy,  and  comfortable  rooms,  that  looked 
out  on  the  street  and  ignored  the  vulgar  yard  behind,  IMadame 
la  Roche  lived  on  all  the  more  pleasantly  that  she  possessed 
and  enjoyed  the  privilege  and  luxury  of  a  garden,  which, 
though  small,  rivalled  the  suspended  gardens  of  Babylon, 
being  like  them  artificially  raised  above  the  common  level  of 
this  world. 

Number  two  was  a  corner  house. 

Madame  la  Roche's  rooms  ended  in  and  gave  out  on  a 
square  terrace,  which  formed  the  angle  of  two  streets,  and  in- 
terposed between  both  the  green  sward  of  a  little  pelouse,  the 
silver  spray  of  a  diminutive  fountain,  and  the  foliage  and 
flowers  of  luxuriant  lilac  aiid  laburnum  trees.  A  bosquet 
covered  with  roses,  where  Madame  la  Roche  liked  to  sit,  and 
a  handsome  aviary,  completed  the  delights  of  the  place.  To 
crown  all,  it  was  not  overlooked  by  more  than  a  dozen  win- 
dows;  some  people,  indeed,  might  have  thought  this  too 
much,  but  Madame  la  Roche,  who  bad  never  done   any  thnig 


b  SEVEN    YEARS. 

in  her  life,  had  nothing  to  hide,  and  would  have  iivea  in  a 
glass  house  with  perfect  satisfaction  to  herself 

In  this  garden,  for  a  garden  it  was,  a  young  girl  walked 
gathering  flowers,  on  a  lovely  May  morning,  some  years  ago. 
It  was  early  yet ;  the  gras';  sparkled  with  dew,  which  falls  alike 
not  merely  ou  the  good  and  the  wicked,  but  on  city  guilt  and  pas- 
toral innocence  ;  the  fragrance  of  the  lilac  and  of  the  laburnum 
was  almost  overpowering  ;  the  little  fountain  splashed  merrily  in 
its  stone  basin  edged  with  bright  flowers,  and  the  birds  in  the 
aviary  sang  their  most  gleesome  carols,  whilst  daring  sparrows 
pecked  the  seed  scattered  by  the  wealthy  little  prodigals,  and 
hopped  about  pert  and  free  in  the  sanded  walks.  The  young 
girl  paused  in  the  patli  she  was  following,  put  her  hand  in  a 
tiny  apron  pocket,  drew  out  some  crumbs,  which  she  scattered 
at  her  feet,  and  immediately  an  eager  crowd  gathered  around 
her  fearless  and  confident. 

The  young  girl  looked  at  them  with  a  pleased  and  tri- 
umphant smile,  unconscious  that,  as  she  stood  there  with  her 
flowers  in  her  hand,  she  afforded  a  subject  of  contemplation  to 
a  tall  and  stout  young  upholsterer  opposite,  who  stood  conven- 
iently ou  a  ladder,  not  indeed  for  the  purpose  of  looking  at  her, 
for  he  was  hanging  up  chairs  in  his  newly-opened  shop,  but  who 
yet  made  the  most  of  the  advantage  he  derived  from  this  ele- 
vated position  by  taking  a  survey  of  the  garden  and  its  early 
tenant. 

She  was  very  young,  barely  sixteen,  and  even  fastidious 
eyes  might  have  been  pleased  with  her  light  supple  figure  and 
graceful  motions  ;  but,  though  her  dark  hair  neatly  plaited 
shone  in  the  sua,  though  her  mobile  face  had  all  the  expres- 
sive vivacity  of  the  Parisian  type,  if  the  name  of  type  can  in- 
deed be  given  to  anything  belonging  to  that  complex  race,  the 
young  girl  was  not  pretty.  Her  complexion  was  pale  and  even 
sallow,  and  she  was  decidedly  thin.  Her  attire  was  neat  but 
simple;  a  little  cotton  print  dress  and  white  collar  and  sleeves 
proved  her  to  be  a  true  Parisian  in  taste  and  toilette. 

The  sparrows  were  fed,  and,  resuming  her  task  of  gather- 
ing flowers,  the  young  girl  was  turning  round,  when  her  quick 
eye  perceived,  above  the  low  stone  wall  that  surrounded  the 
garden,  the  full  outlines  of  a  masculine  fiice.  She  did  not 
pause  in  her  task,  but  darting  a  second  glance,  she  endeavoured 
to  discover  to  whom  the  face  belonged.  She  perceived  the 
ladder,  and  standing  on  it  the  charmed  gazer,  whose  eyes 
seemed  rivetted  on  her  every  motion.  She  also  saw,  though 
he  did  not,  two  or  three  workingmen    in  the   shop,   curiously 


SEVEN   YEAES.  7 

watching  their  master  on  the  ladder,  and  evidently  unable  to 
guess  what  he  was  looking  at  so  intently.  She  could  even  in 
the  mornino;  stillness  of  the  streets  overhear  their  comments 
on  the  subject. 

"  The  master  is  studying  the  design  of  Madame  la  Roche'a 
window  draperies,"  said  one  man. 

"  Real  Louis  Quinze  style,  I  believe,"  replied  another. 

The  young  girl,  determined  to  undeceive  them,  though  not 
cariijg  to  appear,  here  raised  her  voice,  and  began  to  sing  in 
tones  so  young  and  gay  as  to  prove  very  clearly  that  the  in- 
dividual on  the  ladder  might  have  some  more  modern  object 
to  contemplate  than  the  Loviis  Quinze  draperies  of  Madame 
la  Roche. 

"  Oh  ho  !  "  said  the  first  of  the  two  speakers  in  the  shop. 

The  other  laughed  without  restraint. 

The  young  man  on  the  ladder  coloured  to  the  very  temples, 
and  slowly  descended ;  the  young  girl  in  the  garden,  delighted 
at  his  exposure,  continued  singing  as  any  lark,  and  did  not 
enter  until  her  apron  was  full  of  flowers.  She  then  pushed 
open  a  glass  door,  and  stepping  into  a  handsome  dining-room, 
gaily  lit  with  the  morning  sun,  she  began  settling  her  flowers 
in  a  pair  of  old  blue  china  vases,  that  looked  made  to  set  off 
their  brilliant  colours. 

Presently  one  of  the  doors  of  the  dining-room  opened,  and 
a  short,  stout,  and  round  woman,  long  past  middle  age,  put 
her  head  in,  and  said  coaxingly  : 

"  Fanny,  dear,  can  you  come  ?  '' 

"  Not  on  any  account,"  calmly  replied  Fanny ;  "  you  see, 
Marie,  how  I  am  engaged." 

"  Why  yes,  so  you  are,"  answered  Marie,  "  so  you  are.  I 
always  tell  Charlotte  so."     And  her  head  vanished. 

Presently  another  door  opened,  and  another  female  face, 
older,  calmer,  and  paler  than  Marie's,  made  its  appearance. 

"  Child,"  it  said,  "  I  think  it  is  time  to  attend  to  that 
ironing." 

"  I  shall  see  to  nothing  till  I  have  settled  my  flowers,"  re- 
belliously  replied  Fanny. 

There  was  a  pause  as  of  doubt,  then  the  head  vanished, 
the  door  closed,  and  Fanny  was  left  mistress  of  the  field.  She 
continued  her  task  like  one  too  much  accustomed  to  such  victo- 
ries to  care  for  them ;  but  the  low  twinkling  of  a  silver  bell  was 
heard  in  a  room  within.  At  once  Fanny  threw  down  her 
flowers,  and  darted  away  to  answer  the  summons. 


8  SEVEN   YEAE8. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Madame  la  Roche  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  in  her  room 
Heavy  damask  curtains  half  hid  the  lofty  bed ;  ancient  en- 
gravings and  tarnished  portraits  in  oval  frames  hung  on  the 
walls ;  lady-like  knick-nacks  were  scattered  about  on  spindle- 
legged  tables.  Pots-pourris,  vases  of  every  shape,  screens  and 
stands  numberless,  made  a  pretty  confusion  about  the  place. 
The  window  was  open,  the  morning  air  came  in  and  breathed 
gently  over  Madame  la  Roche,  who  sat,  as  we  said,  iu  an  arm- 
chair, with  composure  in  her  calm  face,  and  the  happiness  of 
repose  in  her  hands  gently  folded  on  her  knees.  A  loose  morn- 
ing gown  robed  her  person,  a  pretty  morning  cap  framed  her 
face,  soft,  aged,  and  fair  ;  a  face  on  which  care  had  left  few 
lines,  and  these  few  time  had  gently  smootlied  away. 

At  her  hand  stood  a  small  table,  on  which  was  placed  the 
little  silver  dinner-bell  with  which  Madame  la  Roche  had  sum- 
moned attendance,  and  which  the  young  girl  had  so  promptly 
answered,  that  it  had  scarcely  ceased  to  ring  before  the  lady's 
door  opened,  and  Fanny  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"  My  dear,  it  was  Marie  I  rang  for,"  said  Madame  la 
Roche,  smiling. 

"  But  I  was  there  in  the  dining  room,"  replied  Fanny,  a 
little  jealously,  "  there  was  no  harm  in  coming." 

"  Oh  !  no,"  meditatively  said  the  elder  lady,  "  I  do  not 
think  there  can  be  harm  in  that.  Well,  child,  I  rang  to  say 
that  I  think  I  shall  breakfast  in  the  garden  this  morning." 

"  I  shall  get  it  all  ready,"  cried  Fanny,  with  great  eager- 
ness.    "  In  five  minutes  I  shall  come  for  you." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,"  placidly  replied  Madame  la  Roche ; 
"  yoii  need  not  hurry ;   ten  minutes  will  do." 

But  Fanny  was  already  gone.  With  a  calm  wonder  at  the 
strange  hastiness  of  youth,  Madame  la  Roche  again  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  smoothed  her  lap,  and  once  more  folded  up- 
on it  her  dimpled  white  hands,  hands  made  for  idleness,  or,  as 
Madame  la  Roche  would  have  said  in  the  polite  and  courtly 
speech  with  which  she  clothed  her  thoughts,  "  hands  which 
Nature  had  intended  for  repose." 

Fortune  had  kindly  seconded  Nature  in  the  case  of  Madame 
la  Roche.  She  was  born,  nursed,  and  reared  in  affluence.  She 
married  young  a  rich  lawyer,  who  soon  left  her  a  widow,  with 
a  handsome  fortune  and  an  only  child,  a  daughter,  who  mar 


SEVEN   YEARS.  y 

ried  early  like  lier  mother,  and  like  her  mother  was  wedded  to 
happiness  and  prosperity. 

Thus,  with  few  cares  and  sorrows,  with  little  to  trouble  her, 
and  almost  nothing  to  do,  Madame  la  Roche  had  led  the 
smoothest  of  smooth  lives,  and  calmly  reached  her  seventieth 
year.  She  had  a  kind  heart,  an  amiable  temper,  a  very  easy 
disposition,  and  only  a  few  passive  faults,  from  which  no  one 
had  ever  sufiered.  Her  life  had  been  spent  in  the  house  in 
which  we  now  find  her ;  here  she  was  born,  and  here,  like  her 
predecessors,  she  devoutly  hoped  to  die,  "  as  late  as  I  can,"  she 
smilingly  added.  In  the  meantime  Madame  la  Roche  kept  a 
man-servant,  a  cook,  two  maids  nearly  as  old  as  herself,  and, 
instead  of  the  parrot  or  lap  dog  which  every  lady  worn  in  years 
is  expected  to  possess,  a  merry  girl  of  sixteen,  named  Fanny, 
who  happened  to  be  the  god  daughter  of  her  maid  Charlotte. 
With  the  chatter  of  Fanny  Madame  la  Roche  amused  herself; 
when  her  garden  and  rooms  did'  not  afford  her  sufficient  exer- 
cise she  took  a  drive  in  an  ancient  family  carriage,  and  called 
on  a  few  friends,  whom  every  now  and  then  she  invited  to  din- 
ner. Every  Sunday  she  went  to  hear  mass  and  vespers  in  the 
neighbouring  church.  How  the  rest  of  her  time  was  spent 
Madame  la  Roche  would  have  found  it  hard  to  say,  but  though 
she  might  certainly  have  led  a  more  useful  life,  even  scandal 
herself  could  not  say  that  her  existence  could  be  more  harm- 
less than  it  was.  Her  temper  was  all  but  perfect,  and  it  was 
almost  a  matter  of  history  that  no  one  had  ever  seen  Madame 
la  Roche  disturbed. 

Still  as  five  minutes  went  by,  then  ten,  and  even  fifteen, 
and  as  neither  Fanny  nor  breakfast  appeared,  Madame  la 
Roche  wondered  gently,  moved  in  her  chair,  and  finally 
stretched  out  her  hand  and  rung  again  with  just  a  touch  of 
impatience.  Tliis  first  call  not  being  answered,  she  renewed 
it,  and  presently  the  door  opened,  Marie  appeared,  and  walked 
in  with  a  resolute  look.  We  have  already  said  that  Marie 
was  short,  round  and  stout;  we  may  add  that  she  now  wore 
a  conical  Norman  cap,  that  she  had  a  red  face,  a  quick  eye,  a 
quick  tongue,  and  considerable  vigour  of  mind  and  body. 
Fastidious  people  thought  Marie  rather  fiery,  and  spoke  about 
her  temper,  but  it  was  agi'eed  that  her  heart  was  in  the  right 
place, — f(ir  it  seems  this  useful  organ  is  not  always  where  it 
should  be  in  the  human  frame, — and  this  advantage  was  held 
BujQacient  to  counteract  many  fanlts. 

"  Marie,"  began  Madame  la  Roche,  "I  have  rung  twice."    . 

"  I    was    ironino-,"  said    Marie    shortly,    "  doing    Madame 
1* 


10  SEVEN   YEARS. 

Charlotte's  work.     Besides,,  Madame   knows  this   is   my  time 
for  putting  on  my  cap." 

Madame  la  Roche  did  not  attempt  to  dispute  the  latter  ar- 
gument. The  hat  of  Gessler  himself  was  not  a  sterner  emblem 
of  absolute  power  in  ill-fated  Uri,  than  the  lofty  cap  of  Marie 
in  Madame  la  Koche's  household.  She  added  to  its' importance 
by  referring  to  it  in  a  stately  fashion,  that  admitted  of  no 
joking  or  light  talk  on  the  subject.  And  every  one  accordingly 
stood  in  secret  or  acknowledged  dread  of  it ;  every  one  from 
Madame  la  Roche  downwards,  save  Fanny,  who  was  a  spoiled, 
irreverent  child,  and  afraid  of  nothing  the  sun  shone  upon. 

"  Could  not  Fanny  have  helped  you  to  iron  ?  "  said  Mad- 
ame la  Roche. 

"  Fanny  !  "  cried  Marie,  firing  up,  "  Fanny  was  in  the  gar- 
den gathering  flowers.  I  did  not  think  Madame  would  turn 
upon  Fanny  !  " 

"  Dear  me  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  la  Roche,  "  I  did  not 
think  of  that ;  the  dear  child  cannot  be  in  two  places  at  once, 
of  course." 

"  There  is  nothing  Fanny  does  not  do  to  please  Madame, 
I  am  sure." 

"  I  never  complain  of  her,"  placidly  said  Madame  la 
Roche;  "  I  am  sorry  you  do  sometimes,  Marie." 

"  I,  Madame  ?  "  Marie  looked  suffocated,  to  use  the  French 
idiom. 

"  Yes,  I  heard  you  grumbling  this  morning  because  the 
flaps  of  your  cap  were  not  ironed  out  to  your  liking.  I  do 
not  wish  to  hear  Fanny  grumbled  at." 

"  Oh  !  if  Madame  begins  at  my  poor  cap,"  sarcastically  said 
Marie. 

"  Dear  me,"  plaintively  said  her  mistress,  "  it  is  not  your  cap 
I  care  about  just  now,  but  my  breakfast,  which  I  cannot  get." 

Before  Marie  could  open  her  lips  and  say  she  was  and  had 
long  been  aware  that  Madame  did  not  care  about  her  or  her 
cap  either,  the  door  opened,  and  Charlotte  appeared  like  a 
dove  of  peace.  Marie  snuffed  and  tossed  her  head.  She  and 
Charlotte  were  inseparable  foes  of  forty-five  years'  standing, 
united  but  on  one  point — love  for  Fanny,  though  each  affected 
to  consider  the  other  the  enemy,  or  at  least  the  antagonist,  of 
this  common  darling. 

Charlotte  was  short  and  stout  like  Marie,  though  she  did 
not  in  the  least  resemble  her.  Hers  was  a  mild  breadth  of 
countenance,  a  placid  weight  of  figure,  to  which  the  vivacious 
Marie  had  no  claim.     Like  Marie,  she   had  a   temper  of  her 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  11 

own,  but  it  was  sweet  and  honeyed  even  whilst  it  provoked, 
and,  bee-like,  stung  to  the  quick.  Charlotte  was  a  widow,  and 
had  nursed  Madame  la  Roche's  daughter,  in  virtue  of  which 
office  she  assumed  a  calm  dignity  nothing  could  ruffle,  and 
which  did  more  than  anything  else  to  disturb  Marie's  equa- 
nimity. 

How  Madame  la  Roche  got  on  between  these  two  domi- 
neering spirits  no  one  exactly  knew.  Both  treated  her  like 
their  peculiar  property,  but  after  different  methods.  Marie 
thought  it  good  to  rouse  her  mistress,  and  Charlotte  to 
smooth  her  down.  Madame  la  Roche  let  them  both  have 
their  way,  happy  if  she  could  now  and  then  have  hers.  But, 
as  we  said,  Charlotte  now  came  as  a  dove  of  peace,  and,  ig- 
noring Marie's  aggi'essive  sniff,  she  said  soothingly  : 

"  Breakfast  is  ready,  if  Madame  will  come  out  to  it." 

Madame  la  Roche  rose  and  took  Charlotte's  arm.  Marie 
looked  on  wrathfuUy,  and  asked  sharply  :  "  May  I  know  what 
Madame  rang  for  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  feel  very  strong,"  evasively  replied  Madame  la 
Roche,  "  give  me  your  arm  too,  Marie."  Thus  supported  on 
either  side,  the  gentle  and  politic  lady  walked  through  stately 
rooms  out  into  the  terrace-like  garden,  where  Fanny  stood 
beaming  with  smiles  ready  to  receive  and  lead  lier  to  the 
bosquet.  Here,  though  she  had  taken  somewliat  more  than 
five  minutes  to  prepare  it,  she  had  certainly  provided  a  most 
dainty  looking  little  dejeuner.  A  snow-white  cloth  covered 
the  rude  garden  table.  Eleo-ant  sevres  china  waited  for  the 
rich  coffee  in  the  old  silver  coffee-pot ;  croissants,  a  very 
pleasant  French  cake,  a  variety  of  small  loaves,  and  pats  of 
fresh  butter,  appeared  on  several  plates.  The  two  old  ser- 
vants uttered  exclamations  of  delight. 

"  Beautiful !  "  said  Charlotte. 

"  No  one  does  it  like  her  !  "  cried  Marie. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Madame  la  Roche  smiling,  "your  reward 
shall  be  to  breakfast  with  me." 

"  And  wewill  wait  on  you  both,"  zealously  volunteered  Marie. 

Fanny  was  too  much  accustomed  to  such  favours  to  dis- 
pute them.  She  sat  down  opposite  her  kind  protectress  and 
breakfasted  with  her  without  using  a  bit  of  ceremony,  either 
in  accepting  the  compliment,  or  in  allowing  her  god-mother  or 
Marie  to  wait  on  her. 

It  was  no  unusual  event  to  sec  Madame  la  Roche  break- 
fast in  the  garden ;  yet  numerous  heads  soon  appeared  at  the 
various  windows  that  overlooked  it,  for  the  laudable   purpose 


12  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

of  watching  the  proceedings  below,  and  of  overhearing  such 
Bnatches  of  the  conversation  as  might  rise  upwards ;  to  which 
impertinent  survey  Madame  la  Roche  and  Fanny  both  re- 
nained  indifferent.  That  Marie  felt  more  on  the  subject  than 
they  did  a  remark  uttered  by  Charlotte  soon  made  apparent. 

"  How  red  you  are  in  the  face,  Marie,"  she  kindly  remarked, 
— "  quite  pimply." 

"  Perhaps  I  am,  and  perhaps  I  am  not,"  shortly  said 
Marie, 

"  A  great  deal  depends  on  temper,"  pursued  Charlotte,  "  as 
I  often  told  my  daugliter  Monica,  who  is  now  in  America  with 
her  good-for-nothing  husband,  poor  dear, — as  I  often  told  her, 
'  look  at  me,  child,  you  see  what  a  clear,  smooth  complexion  I 
have ;  all  temper,  love,  all  temper.  Be  passionate,  and  you 
will  be  red ;  be  calm,  and  you  will  be  clear  and  pale.'  No 
one  knows  what  temper  has  to  do  with  complexion." 

"  Temper  or  complexion,  I  know  this  much,"  wrathfully 
said  Marie,  "  that  if  I  had  the  head  of  that  fellow  up  there 
under  ray  right  arm,  and  that  of  the  grinning  little  monkey  by 
him  under  my  left  arm,  I  should  squeeze  them  both  soundly  !  " 

"  Dear  me,  what  an  extraordinary  wish  !  "  said  Madame 
la  Roche,  putting  down  her  cup  and  looking  calmly  surprised. 
*'  I  once  heard  of  a  Roman  Emperor  who  wished  all  the  world 
had  but  one  head — but  do  you  know,  Marie,  it  would  hurt 
you,"  added  Madame  la  Roche,  suddenly  struck  with  that 
practical  objection  to  Marie's  plan. 

"I  should  not  care,"  recklessly  said  Marie,  "  I  hate  look- 
ers-on." 

"  Let  them  look,"  good-naturedly  replied  Madame  la 
Roche ;  "  they  like  to  see  the  birds,  I  dare  say,  and  the 
flowers,  and  Fanny." 

"  It  is  all  Marie's  cap,"  remarked  Charlotte;  "  she  will  not 
believe  that  Parisians  never  will  get  accustomed  to  those  high 
steeple- like  caps." 

"  I  have  worn  my  Norman  cap  sixty  years,'' — loftily  began 
Marie. 

"  And  more,"  put  in  Charlotte, — "  sixty-five  years  at 
least,  Marie." 

"  Take  away  the  things,"  hastily  said  Madame  la  Roche, 
rising  ;  "  Fanny,  my  love,  give  me  your  arm  and  show  me  the 
new  flowers." 

The  new  flowers  were  as  far  from  the  scene  of  contest  as 
the  limits  of  the  garden  allowed.  They  had  been  set  at  the 
foot  of  the  low  wall  that  overlooked  the  street.     Madame  la 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  13 

Eoclie  bent  over  tbera  as  if  to  inhale  their  fragrance,  then 
looking  down  at  the  newly-opened  shop  opposite,  she  said 
slowly  :  "  Fanny,  ray  dear,  who  is  that  young  man  that  never 
took  his  eyes  off  of  you  whilst  we  were  at  breakfast  ?  " 

Fanny's  eyes  were  deceitfully  raised  to  every  third  and 
fourth  floor  of  every  surrounding  house,  as  with  a  look  ol 
great  innocence   she  answered  :  "  I  see  no  young  man,  Mad- 


ame." 


No,  my  dear,  not  up  there,  but  down  below  in  the  up- 
holsterer's shop  there  is  a  very  tall  young  man,  who  looked  at 
you  so  much  whilst  we  were  at  breakfiist,  that  I  scarcely  think 
it  was  the  first  time  he  did  it.     Do  you  know  who  he  is  ?  " 

"  The  master  of  that  new  upholsterer's  shop,  I  believe," 
replied  Fanny. 

"  Can  you  read  his  name  for  me,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Jean  Baptiste  Watt,"  said  Fanny,  casting  a  careless 
glance  over  the  gilt  letters  of  the  new  shop. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  drawing  herself  up 
slightly,  "  I  shall  give  Monsieur  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  one  or 
two  further  trials ;  and  if  he  continues  to  stare  so  at  you,  I 
shall  politely  request  him  to  discontinue  his  impertinence,  and 
remind  him  that  it  is  rude  and  unneighbour-like  to  intrude 
even  his  looks  on  the  privacy  of  two  ladies  enjoying  themselves 
in  their  own  garden." 

Fanny  smiled  demurely,  and  Madame  la  Roche,  satisfied 
with  the  lofty  resolve  to  which  she  had  arrived,  took  a  turn 
round  her  garden,  and  enjoyed  her  pelouse,  her  fountain,  and 
her  birds,  like  the  owner  of  thirty  acres. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Fanny  was  a  dressmaker  by  trade.  She  went  out  to  work 
almost  every  day.  She  fed  the  birds  or  gathered  flowers  be- 
fore she  left,  whilst  Madame  la  Roche  was  still  in  her  room. 
How,  therefore,  could  her  protectress  Avatch  over  the  good  or 
bad  behaviour  of  their  young  neig!ibour  ?  And  as  it  so  hap- 
pened that  Fanny  neitlier  complained  of  him  nor  alluded  to 
him  in  any  fashion,  the  matter  slipped  out  of  tlie  good  lady's 
mind,  and  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  looked,  or  did  not  look,  at  his 
pleasure.  Charlotte,  who  never  put  her  foot  in  tiie  garden 
when  she  could  help  doing  so,  exercised  no  surveillance  over 
her  god-daughter,  and  when  Marie  entered  its  precincts  it  wag 
to  scowl  up  at  the  window  of  the  two  ofienders  on  whose  heads 


14  SEVEN   YEA.ES. 

she  had  longed  to  visit  the  condign  punishment  Madame  la 
Roche  deprecated.  On  the  low  regions  of  street  and  shop 
Mai'ie  rarely  cast  a  look. 

We  need  scai-cely  say  that  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  went  on 
looking, — so  long,  at  least,  as  Fanny  would  give  him  an  oppor- 
tunity, which  was  but  seldom,  the  young  girl  being  of  a  coy 
nature,  willing  enough  to  tantalize  him  with  a  glimpse  of  her 
young  face,  half  seen  amongst  green  shrubs  and  slender  trees, 
but  by  no  means  inclined  to  afi'ord  him  a  full  and  convenient 
object  for  contemplation.  Matters  might  have  gone  on  thus, 
however,  for  ever  so  long,  but  for  the  unexpected  interference 
of  Monsieur  Noiret. 

Monsieur  Noiret  was  one  of  Madame  la  Roche's  oldest 
friends.  He  was  sixty  years  odd ;  a  dry  and  withered,  but 
stately  old  gentleman,  stronger,  more  active,  and  healthier 
than  many  a  younger  man.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  the  old 
school  too ;  he  wore  a  queue,  small-clothes,  black  silk  stock- 
ings, and  shoes  with  gold  buckles  to  them.  His  features  were 
sharp,  yet  not  without  a  quiet  humour  tinged  with  sarcasm  ; 
his  keen  brown  eyes  twinkled  beneath  his  strong  grey  eye- 
brows with  mischievous  light,  and  his  white  teeth  gleamed, 
almost  too  white  and  sharp,  behind  his  full  good-humoured 
mouth.  To  these  particulars  we  need  only  add,  that  Monsieur 
Noiret  was  a  bachelor,  that  he  enjoyed  a  comfortable  income, 
and  that  several  times  a  year  he  dined  in  state  with  Madame 
la  Roche.  He  had  been  dining  with  her  on  this  particular 
day,  one  of  the  brightest  in  June ;  the  meal  was  over,  and  was 
followed  by  the  traditional  cup  of  black  coffee,  which  Madame 
la  Roche  and  her  guest  took  in  the  garden,  with  Fanny  as 
waiter. 

The  evening  was  clear  and  calm  ;  not  a  breath  of  air 
stirred  the  roses  of  the  bosquet,  now  in  full  bloom,  and  to 
whose  hue  Monsieur  Noiret,  more  courteously  than  veraciously, 
compared  Fanny's  cheek. 

"  Yes,  the  child  is  not  amiss,"  said  Madame  la  Roche, 
looking  kindly  at  her  favourite.  "  She  grows,  too,  does  she 
not.  Monsieur  Noiret  ?  " 

"  Like  a  lily,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  smiling  his  fullest 
Bmile ;  "  straight,  fair,  and  modest,  but  with  more  than  a  lily's 
power  to  blush." 

Fanny,  with  whom  Monsieur  Noiret  was  no  favourite, 
looked  disdainful,  as  much  as  to  imply  that  she  did  not  blush 
on  his  account. 

"  And  Fanny  has  admirers,  I  perceive,"  continued  Mon- 


SEVEN   YEAES.  15 

gieur  Noiret,  leaning  back  in  bis  cbair  and  glancing  carelessly 
at  tbe  opposite  shop.  "  That  tall  yellow-haired  upholsterer 
has  a  decided  admiration  for  Fanny." 

"  That    young    man's    behaviour    is    getting    indecorous, 
loftily  said  Madame  la  Roche;   "I  really  must  interfere." 

Monsieur  Noiret  whistled. 

"  An  old  offender,  I  see,"  he  shrewdly  remarked.  "  Oh, 
Fanny,  Fanny  !  " 

"  Fanny  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Monsieur  Noiret ;  do 
advise  me." 

Monsieur  Noiret  waved  his  hand  with  a  deprecatory  ges- 
ture, that  implied,  "  I  cannot;  excuse  me  ;  "  and  with  a  covert 
look  at  Fanny  that  said,  "  not  in  her  presence,  if  you  please." 

Madame  la  Roche  took  the  hint,  and  gently  said  to  the 
young  girl  :  "  You  may  take  these  things  away,  my  dear." 

Fanny,  nothing  loth,  took  up  the  tray  and  entered  tho 
house. 

"  My  dear  Monsieur  Noiret,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  piteously 
exclaimed  Madame  la  Roche  ;  "  I  had  some  thoughts  of  alight- 
ing from  my  carriage  at  this  young  man's  door,  and  seriously 
requesting  him  not  to  look  up  in  that  strange  way ;  but  on  re- 
flection it  seems  to  me  you  cannot  quarrel  with  people  for  look- 
ing, can  you.  Monsieur  Noiret  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not, — especially  for  looking  at  youth  and 
beauty, — else  I  sliould  be  in  a  sad  plight  myself,"  added  Mon- 
sieur Noiret,  "  having  always  had  a  strong  bent  that  way. 
Bat,  my  dear  Madame,  I  thought  Mademoiselle  Fanny  be- 
came very  rosy  when  I  spoke  of  this  yellow-haired  young  man, 
who  since  her  departure  looks  most  blank  and  melancholy. 
Do  you  suppose  she  takes  any  interest  in  him  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  no  ! "  exclaimed  Madame  la  Roche,  rather 
stiffly. 

"  Those  things  have  been,"  smiled  Monsieur  Noiret,  as  if 
he  just  then  remembered  something  of  the  kind  witliin  his  own 
experience ;  "  but  whatever  may  be  the  feelings  of  Mademoi- 
selle Fanny,"  he  added,  "  I  take  it  for  granted  that  her  ad- 
mirer gets  little  encouragement,  else  he  would  not  feed  so  hun- 
grily on  mere  looks." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  "  sighed  Madame  la  Roche  ;  "  I 
do  not  want  to  keep  poor  Fanny  out  of  the  garden,  and  it  ia 
not  decorous  that  she  shoidd  be  looked  at  in  that  strange 
way  " 

"  It  is  most  indecorous,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret.  "  Well, 
my  dear  Madame,  I  see  but  one  thing  to  do.     To  send  for  that 


10  SEVEN"   YEARS. 

yoimg  man  on  some  upholstery  concern,  and  drop  him  a  gen 
tie  hint." 

Madame  la  Eoche  eagerly  grasped  at  the  suggestion. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  she  said  ;  "  I  want  sonte  new  gar- 
den chairs.  What  is  it,  Marie  ?  "  she  added,  addressing  the 
owner  of  the  Norman  cap  who  tlien  appeared  on  the  threshold 
of  the  ghiss-door  leading  from  the  house  to  the  garden. 
"  Marie,"  she  added,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  "  will  you 
just  step  down  and  tell  Monsieur  Watt  that  I  should  like  to 
speak  to  him  on  business  ?  If  he  can  come  at  once  he  will 
very  much  oblige  me." 

Marie  was  not  a  submissive  servant.  She  had  both  a  way 
and  a  will  of  her  own,  but  the  presence  of  Monsieur  Noiret 
rendered  her  docile  for  once  ;  and  though  she  went  away  mut- 
tering to  herself  about  evening  dews  and  damps,  and  people 
who  never  knew  that  they  were  getting  old,  she  obliged  her 
mistress,  which  was  the  chief  thing.  Her  stout  figure  and  for- 
midable cap  were  soon  seen  at  tlie  upholsterer's  door  by  Mon- 
sieur Noiret ;  the  former  firmly  planted  on  the  pavement,  the 
latter  nodding  imperatively  at  Jean  Baptiste  Watt,  who,  yield- 
ing to  its  summons,  put  by  the  evening  pipe  he  was  enjoying, 
and  stepped  across  the  street  to  comply  with  Madame  la 
Roche's  request.  Marie  slowly  brought  up  the  rear,  as  if  to 
prevent  the  possibility  of  escape. 

"  Is  he  coming  ?  "  asked  Madame  la  Roche,  who  was 
watching  Monsieur  Noiret's  face. 

•*  He  is  coming,"  emphatically  replied  Monsieur  Noiret. 

Even  as  he  spoke  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  appeared  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  garden,  and  slowl}^  approached  the  spot  where 
Madame  la  Roche  was  sitting.  The  young  upholsterer  was 
tall,  broad-shouldered,  and  strong.  He  might  be  twenty-three 
or  more ;  he  certainly  looked  older.  He  had  a  calm,  open, 
manly  face,  serene  blue  eyes,  with  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  thera, 
and  firm  silent  lips  that  told  of  a  tenacious  purpose  and  strong 
will.  His  regular  features  entitled  him  to  the  epithet  of 
good-looking,  though  a  certain  want  of  vivacity  and  imagina- 
tion in  theui  denied  him  all  claim  to  the  meaning  of  the  com- 
prehensive and  wonderful  word  of  "  handsome."  He  was  a 
Fleming,  as  his  name  indicated,  but  he  wore  the  dress  of  a 
Parisian  working  man  ;  the  grey  blouse  and  trousers,  and  a 
cloth  casquette,  which  he  quietly  doffed  as  he  appx-oached 
Madame  la  Roche. 

This  lady  was  favourably  impressed  by  his  appearance, 
and  looked  at  him  with  a  pleased  and  puzzled  expression. 


SEVEN    YEARS,  17 

"  Madame  wishes  to  speak  to  me,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  hesitatingly  replied  Madame  La  Roche.     "  Yes 
I  think  I  should  like  some  garden  chairs." 

"  I  am  an  upholsterer,"  said  the  young  man.  "  I  can  pro- 
cure you  garden  chairs,  but  I  do  not  make  them." 

His  voice  and  manner  were  both  phlegmatic  and  cold. 

"  I  see,  I  understand,"  said  Madame  La  Roche,  and,  not 
knowing  how  to  get  on,  she  gave  Monsieur  Noiret  an  appeal- 
ing look.  He  smiled  compassionately,  gently  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair,  and  thus  took  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  Monsieur  Watt,  it  is  not  merely  garden  chairs  Madame 
la  Roche  requires,  but  an  awning  to  protect  her  from  the  sun 
first  of  all,  and  also  to  screen  her  from  indiscreet  looks  that 
are  apt  to  find  their  way  to  this  garden.  I  believe  an  awning 
of  stout  cloth,  say  striped  red  and  white,  scolloped  at  the  edge, 
and  held  by  strong  poles,  will  answer  her  purpose  very  well. 
But  perhaps  you  do  not  make  awnings.  Monsieur  Watt?  " 

Monsieur  Watt  did  not  answer.  He  looked  amazed 
and  confounded  at  the  prospect  Monsieur  Noiret  so  cruelly 
held  out.  No  doubt  a  visionary  awning,  striped  red  and 
white,  and  artistically  scolloped,  the  work  of  his  own  hands 
too,  already  stretched  before  his  mind's  eye  along  the  ridge 
of  wall  above  which  he  had  so  often  seen  the  graceful  tonn  of 
Fanny  lightly  moving;  but  awakening-  as  from  a  dream,  he 
said  with  a  strong:  eli'ort : 

"  I  can  n)ake  an  awnino;  for  Madame."  And  takina;  out 
his  metre  measure,  he  began  methodically  calculating  the 
height  and  breadth  of  the  proposed  awning.  Monsieur  Noiret 
watched  and  enjoyed  his  proceedit-gs,  but  Madame  la  Roche, 
who  had  ever  been  more  remarkable  for  kinduess  of  heart  than 
for  logic  or  consistency,  exclaimed  compassionately : 

"  Mou  Dieu,  Monsieur  AV^att  !  I  do  not  care  about  that 
awning;  if  you  will  only  not  look  up  here  so  much  as  to  get 
Faniiy  noticed  in  the  neighbourhood,  we  will  not  put  it  up  at 
all  But,  you  see,  you  are  very  tall,  and  so  your  eyes  natu- 
rally look  up,  and  people  might  misconstrue,  Monsieur  Watt." 

Monsieur  Watt,  fairly  taken  by  surprise,  reddened  like  a 
boy  on  liearing  this  speech  ;  but  soon  rallying  he  said  coolly  : 

"I  will  put  the  awning,  or  not,  at  Madame's  pleasure;  I 
am  an  upholsterer,  and  it  is  my  business  to  comply  with  the 
orders  of  customers  ;  but  as  to  not  looking,"  he  added  with 
an  emphatic  smack  of  his  lips,  "  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  uses  the 
eyes  which  the  Almighty  gave  him,  and  asks  no  one's  leave  as 
to  how  and  when  he  is  to  look," 


18  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

This  defiant  speecli,  wliicli  was  uttered  witt  a  full  look  at 
Monsieur  Noiret,  amused  that  gentleman  exceedingly,  but 
completely  disconcerted  Madame  la  Roche. 

"  What  an  obstinate  young  man,"  she  murmured.     "  Well, 
well,  put  up  the  awning.  Monsieur  Watt.     How  much  will  it. 
cost  ?  " 

"Two  hundred  and  twenty-five  francs." 

"  So  much  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  La  Roche,  opening  her 
eyes ;  "  can  you  make  it  no  cheaper  ?  " 

"  Not  a  sou." 

"  Well,  well,  never  mind,"  said  the  easy  lady,  "  put  it  up 
all  the  same." 

An  expression  of  conflicting  emotions  appeared  on  thej 
young  man's  face.  He  hesitated,  stammered,  coughed,  and  at 
length  spoke  to  the  following  purport  : 

"  I  am  new  in  business,  and  naturally  anxious  to  secure 
customers.  Still,  as  I  believe  Madame  is  putting  up  that  awn- 
ing chiefly  on  my  account,  I  think  that  Madame  will  spare 
some  expense  by  putting  up  a  wooden  trellis,  covered  with 
creeping  plants.  It  will  cost  less,  look  prettier,  and  answer 
the  purpose  better  than  any  awning." 

"  I  shall  like  it  a  great  deal  better,"  cried  Madame  la 
Roche.     "  How  much  will  it  cost.  Monsieur  Watt  ?  " 

"  A  gardener  will  tell  Madame  best,"  answered  the  young 
man  civilly,  but  coldly.  "  I  have  the  honour  to  bid  Madame 
a  good  evening." 

And,  without  casting  a  look  at   Monsieur   Noiret,  he   re 
Bumed  his  casquette,  left  the  garden,  and  was  once  more  seen 
standing    on    his   door-step   leisurely  smoking,  and   all  before 
Madarae  la  Roche  had  recovered  from  the  surprise  into  which 
his  bluntness,  honesty,  and  coolness  had  thrown  her. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  young  man,"  she  exclaimed  at 
length  ;   "  very  stubborn  though,  and  very  tiresome,  I  suspect." 

"  I  wonder  what  Mademoiselle  Fanny  will  say  to  all  this  ?  " 
put  in  Monsieur  Noiret. 

"  She  shall  know  nothing,"  said  Madame  la  Roche ;  "  she 
would  fall  in  love  directly,  and  slie  is  too  young.  But  tbat 
young  man  must  not  lose  by  his  disinterestedness;  I  shall 
work  you  a  chair.  Monsieur  Noiret,  and  he  shall  make  it  up." 

"Then  pray  do  not  tell  him  so,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret 
rising,  "  or  he  will  certainly  stuff  the  scat  with  pins,  and  put 
an  odd  nail  or  two  in  the  back  ?  " 

"  What  an  extraordinary  fancy  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  la 
Roche  ;   "  you  do  not  think  he  could  be  so  wicked  ?  " 


\ 

\ 

SEVEN    TEAKS.  19^ 

"  Humph  !  it  was  I  suggested  the  awning.  And  he  looks 
desperately  in  love." 

Madame  la  Roche  granted  the  force  of  the  argument,  and 
gently  thanked  Heaven  that  she  had  never  been  in  love. 
Which  remark  Monsieur  Noiret  heard  with  the  compassion  it 
merited. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Madame  la  Roche  was  by  far  too  discreet  to  drop  a  word 
to  Fanny  of  what  had  passed. 

"  No,  Marie,"  she  said  to  her  maid,  as  the  latter  helped  her 
to  undress  that  evening,  "  no,-  Fanny  is  a  good  girl,  but  if  she 
were  to  know  the  state  that  poor  young  man  is  in,  it  might 
have  some  eifeet  upon  her.  1  never  was  in  love,  thank  Heaven, 
and  married  Monsieur  la  Roche  out  of  duty  to  my  dear 
mother,  who  said  he  would  make  a  good  husband  ;  but  the 
truth  is,  Marie,  I  was  once  very  near  being  in  love  with  a 
linen-draper,  just  because  my  nurse,  like  a  foolish  thing  as  she 
was,  said  that  young  man  looked  bewitched  whenever  I  entered 
the  shop.  I  confess  I  wa,s  beginning  to  take  a  liking  to  going 
into  that  shop,  when  I  luckily  married  Monsieur  la  Roche, 
and  an  end  was  put  to  all  that  nonsense." 

We  are  sorry  to  say  that  Marie  did  not  give  this  sensible 
speech  the  respectful  hearing  it  certainly  deserved.  She  was  very 
much  provoked  with  every  one  :  with  her  mistress  for  talking 
of  getting  a  trellis  put  up  ;  with  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  for  look- 
ing at  Fanny  ;  and  with  Fanny  for  being  looked  at.  Mai-ie 
liked  the  garden  as  it  was;  she  liked  to  see  and  be  seen;  to 
lean  with  arms  folded  above  the  wall  that  overlooked  the 
street,  and  exchange  shrill  contests  with  any  passing  enemy 
below.  The  trellis  threatened  to  be  the  destroyer  of  all  her 
pleasures  and  habits,  and  Marie  was  resolved  that  it  should 
nut  be  put  up.  For  this  it  was  necessary  to  bring  matters  to 
a  crisis,  and  she  saw  no  better  means  of  accomplishing  her 
object  than  to  attack  Fanny ;  not  by  coarse  reproaches  or 
violent  scolding, — Marie  loved  the  young  girl  too  much  to  use 
either,  and,  to  say  the  truth,  she  Was  alsu  too  much  in  fear  of 
this  pert  little  tyrant,  who  managed  to  rule  the  whole  house, — 
but  by  those  delicate  arts  which  are  omnipotent  all  the  world 
over,  and  which  Fanny  in  particular  was  too  young  and  inex- 
perienced to  compete  with. 

After  seeing  her  mistress  safe  in  bed,  Marie,  who  never 
took   long  to  mature  her  plans,  proceeded  straightway  to  the 


> 
I 


20  SEVEN    YEARS. 

room  where  Fanny  slept,  and  where  she  found  the  young  girl 
working  busily  by  the  light  of  a  solitary  candle.  It  was  a 
small,  neat  room,  which  Madame  la  lloche  had  taken  a  pecu- 
liar pleasure  in  decorating,  and  which  many  a  wealthier  girl 
than  Fanny  might  have  envied  her,  so  prettily  and  coquet- 
tishly  was  it  furnished. 

'■  My  darling,"  said  Marie,  entering,  "  why  will  you  spoil 
}Our  eyes  with  that  bad  light  ?  " 

"  Spoil  my  eyes  !  "  saucily  said  Fanny,  "  nothing  spoils 
them." 

"  I  dare  say  not — I  dare  say  not,"  sighed  Marie,  sinking 
down  on  a  chair ;  "  that  poor  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  knows 
something  about  it.  Well,  well.  I  do  not  pity  him ;  that 
screen  will  only  serve  him  right." 

"  Screen,  what  screen  ?  "  asked  Fanny. 

"  Dear  me,  child,  do  you  not  know  ?  Did  you  not  see  him 
in  the  garden  this  evening  ?  Were  you  not  present  when  he 
had  that  long  talk  with  Madame  ?  " 

Fanny  did  not  know  what  Marie  meant.  She  had  seen  no 
one  ;  she  had  heard  nothing. 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure,  of  course  not !  "  exclaimed  Marie,  sud- 
denly remembering;  "  well,  you  know,  child,  that  big,  fat, 
stupid-looking  Fleming  opposite,  the  upholsterer,  who  always 
does  so  stare  at  you." 

"  I  have  never  looked  at  him,"  sharply  interrupted  Fanny, 
"  and  therefore  he  may  be  fat,  stupid,  and  all  you  like,  for  all 
I  know." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  soothingly  said  Marie;  "well, 
child,  Madame  and  Monsieur  Noiret  sent  for  him." 

"  I  do  not  see  what  Monsieur  Noiret  had  to  do  with  it.'' 
again  interrupted  Faimy,  who  looked  red  and  vexed. 

"  Nothing,  certainly,"  approvingly  said  Marie  ;  "  but  it 
seems  they  sent  for  him,  and  scolded  him  about  his  looking, 
and  all  that." 

"  Marie,  what  do  you  mean  by  all  that  ? "  asked  Fanny, 
looking  solemn.  •'  Do  you  meau  to  say  that  I  have  ever 
taken  the  least  notice  of  that  young  man, —  that  I  should  know 
him  in  the  street  ?" 

"  My  darling,  no  one  dreams  of  blaming  you, — no  one  in- 
deed ;  the  young  man  is  nothing  in  this ;  the  screen  is  all  to 
my  seeming." 

"  What  screen  ?  " 

"  Ah  I  there  it  is,  what  screen,  indeed  !  It  seems  neither 
threats  nor  entreaties  would  make  him  promise  not  to  look  at 


SEVEN    YEARS.  21 

you  in  the  garden,  so  Monsieur  Noiret  said  a  screen — a 
wooden  trellis  with  a  creeping  vine — was  the  only  cure,  and  a 
screen  there  is  to  be  all  round  the  garden,  and  we  are  to  he 
locked  up  like  the  Grand  Turk's  wives." 

"  Madame  la  Roche  may  put  up  the  screen  of  course," 
said  Fanny,  looking  very  angry  and  very  dignified,  "  but  once 
it  is  up  I  shall  not  put  my  fo.jt  in  the  garden." 

"  Then  all  the  blame  will  be  thrown  upon  me,"  ejaculated 
Marie,  "  for,  to  say  the  truth,  child,  I  was  not  to  have  told 
you.  Nothing  would  convince  Madame  but  that  if  you  once 
knew  about  this  young  fellow,  you  would  fall  in  love  with  him." 

"  I  !  "  exclaimed  Fanny. 

"  Do  not  mind  it,  child,  it  is  all  Charlotte's  doing,  I  have 
no  doubt." 

"  I  do  not  care  who  has  doiie  it,"  cried  Fanny,  exasperat- 
ed, ''  but  this  I  know,  that  if  the  screen  is  put  up,  I  shall  not 
put  my  foot  in  the  garden  again." 

"  Stick  to  that,  dear,"  said  Marie  shrewdly,  "  stick  to 
that,  and  we  shall  have  no  screen,  you  may  rely  upon  it." 

Every  one  knows  the  potent  efi'ect  of  contradiction, 
especially  in  the  discreet  season  of  youth.  As  much  through 
shyness  as  through  prudence,  Fanny  had  shunned  the  perti- 
nacious looks  of  Jean  Baptiste  Watt,  but  now  the  spirits  of 
curiosity  and  of  disobedience  were  both  roused,  and  Fanny 
got  up  at  least  half  an  hour  earlier  than  usual  the  next  morn- 
ing, to  see  what  this  fat,  stupid,  big  Fleming  was  really  like. 
She  went  into  the  garden,  she  fed  the  birds  in  the  aviary,  and 
the  sparrows  on  tlie  grass ;  she  tied  up  drooping  flowers,  and 
spent  an  hour  in  these  tasks,  and  did  not  once  see  the  face  of 
Jean  Baptiste  Watt.  He  sat  in  his  shop  stuffing  a  sofa  ;  but 
though  he  might  have  seen  her,  and  though  he  certainly  must 
have  heard  hei',  for  she  sang  to  herself,  he  never  raised  his 
head  once. 

"  He  is  a  Fleming,  and  he  is  stupid,"  thought  Fanny,  all 
the  more  vexed  that  sHie  was  conscious  of  having  watched  for 
an  admiration  she  had  disdained  hitherto.  She  resolved  not 
to  give  him  another  thought.  Yet  at  twelve  she  was  in  the 
garden  again,  and  again  she  saAV  Baptiste  working  hard,  and 
never  raising  his  look  towards  Madame  la  Roche's  premises. 
"They  have  frightened  him,"  thought  Fanny,  with  something 
like  contempt.  And  she  resolved  to  see  if  he  could  abstain 
from  looking  one  whole  day.  Madame  la  Roche  was  out  in 
her  carriage,  making  her  round  of  calls ;  Charlotte  and  Marie 
wore   busy  within ;  the   June   evening  was   balmy  and   mild 


22  SEVEN   YEAES. 

Fanny  took  out  her  work  to  the  garden,  and,  seating  herself 
near  the  wall,  she  sewed  busily,  now  and  then  clipping  off',  with 
her  scissors,  a  withered  leaf  from  a  neighbouring  shrub,  or 
casting  a  careless  look  below.  Women  and  girls  were  filling 
their  pails  at  a  fountain,  children  were  playing  in  the  middle 
of  the  street,  and  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  stood  on  the  threshold 
of  his  door  leaning  against  the  jamb,  with  sadly  folded  arms, 
smoking  a  huge  pipe  with  slow  relish,  and  looking  at  Fanny 
with  all  his  might. 

The  young  girl  had  given  him  up,  and  indeed  had  forgotten 
him,  when,  casting  her  eyes  towards  his  shop,  she  made  the 
discoveiy.  An  expression  of  great  severity  found  its  way  tc 
Fanny's  face.  She  rose  slowly,  folded  up  her  work,  took  in 
her  chair,  and  disappeared  for  the  evening.  Indeed,  Fanny 
was,  or  fancied  herself,  very  angry,  and  straightway  went  to 
Marie,  to  whom  she  told  what  had  happened,  adding  some  try- 
ing comments  on  the  personal  appearance  as  well  as  on  the 
behaviour  of  her  admirer,  and  concluding  with  the  declaration 
that  the  sooner  the  screen  was  put  up  the  better. 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is,"  pensively  ejaculated  Marie,  "  for 
there  is  no  knowing  but  you  might  be  tempted  to  give  the 
young  fellow  a  look  now  and  then." 

"  I  !  "  interrupted  Fanny. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  just  as  you  might  look  at  the  door,  or  at  a 
horse  and  car  in  the  st:eet;  but  men  are  so  dreadfully  conceited 
that  this  one  would  never  fancy  he  is  no  more  than  a  door  or 
a  horse  in  your  sight,  ;;nd  of  course  you  cannot  tell  him  so. 
Yes,  the  trellis  is  certaii.Iy  best,  unless,  indeed,  he  should  fancy 
you  are  peeping  at  him  ihrough  it." 

"  Peeping,  and  at  him  !  "  indignantly  exclaimed  Fanny. 

"Yes,  dear,  all  conceit,  of  course ;  but  still  not  unlikely. 
Men  are  so.  The  best  of  them  would  not  feel  a  bit  surprised 
at  being  told,  Monsieur,  the  queen's  daughter  is  dying  for 
you." 

Fanny  was  confounded :  to  be  suspected  of  peeping  at  a 
Monsieur  Watt  through  a  trellis  was  more  than  pride  could 
tolerate,  and  Marie  followed  up  her  advantage  with  so  much 
skill,  that  the  young  girl  once  more  declared  she  would  not 
put  her  foot  in  the  garden  if  once  the  screen  were  put  up.  She 
said  so  not  merely  to  Marie,  but  to  Madame  la  Roche  nerself, 
when  that  lady  remotely  alluded  to  the  subject,  and  spoke  of 
the  heat  of  the  sun,  and  the  staring  of  the  neighbours. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,  of  course,  to  be  rid  of  the  staring  of 
that  impertinent  upholsterer,"  said  Fanny,  speaking  very  fast, 


\ 

\ 

\ 


SEVEN   TEAE8.  2S\ 

"  but  for  all  that,  once  tlie  screen  is  up,  I  shall  not  enter  the 

garden." 

"  My  dear  !  "  gravely  exclaimed  Madame  la  Eoche. 

"  I  know  he  would  think  I  am  peeping  at  him  from  behind 
it,"  pursued  Fanny,  looking  hot  and  vexed. 

Madame  la  Roche  was  very  much  perplexed.  _  She  hesi' 
tated :  it  was  weak  to  yield  to  a  child  like  Fanny ;  it  was  com- 
mitting her  authority  ;  but  then  it  was  so  easy. 

"  I  really  do  not  like  to  hurt  that  young  man's  feelings," 
she  apologetically  said  to  Monsieur  Noiret ;  "  on  reflection,  too, 
I  think  it  would  make  him  conceited.  Then  it  would  certainly 
spoil  our  garden,  and  Marie  thinks  it  would  make  people  take 
more  notice  than  if  we  put  up  nothing  at  all ;  and  as  Fanny 
does  not  care  about  the  young  man's  looking — we  will  leave 
matters  as  they  are." 

Monsieur  Noiret  smiled  politely,  and  thus  Marie  won  the 
day,  and  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  was  allowed  to  use  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  V. 

From  that  day  forward  Fanny  took  a  decided,  though  dis- 
creet, liking  to  the  little  garden.  No  one  could  accuse  her  of 
going  there  for  the  mere  purpose  of  idling  away  an  hour,  for 
she  never  went  without  her  work,  and  she  sat  in  the  bosquet 
of  roses  most  decorously  sewing.  No  one  could  say,  either, 
that  she  wished  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  to  look  at  her,  for  the 
spot  she  chose  to  sit  in  was  by  no  means  within  range  of  his 
eyesight ;  in  short,  it  was  difficult  to  say  that  Fanny  went  to 
the  garden  for  any  other  reason  than  that  she  liked  it,  and  that 
it  was  pleasant,  in  the  freshness  of  summer  mornings  and  the 
cool  of  summer  evenings,  to  sit  and  sew  there ;  to  hear  the 
birds  sing,  to  see  the  jet  of  sparkling  water  rise  in  mist  and 
spray,  and  fall  back  in  its  stone  basin;  to  enjoy  the  verdure  of 
grass  and  trees,  and,  instead  of  a  room  ceiling,  to  feel  above 
her  head  the  clear  blue  Paris  sky. 

Madame  la  Roche  was  of  too  easy  and  confiding  a  temper 
to  dream  of  suspecting  Fanny;  Charlotte  was  too  busy  within 
and  too  indolent  to  trouble  herself  about  her  god-daughter's 
doings,  and  only  the  busy,  vigilant,  mistrustful  owner  of  the 
Norman  cap  was  left  to  keep  watch  over  the  young  girl.  She 
did  so  ostensibly  at  first,  leaning  over  the  wall  and  looking 
down  defiantly  at  the  upholsterer  below  ;  then,  reflecting  that 
this  was  too  frank  and   imprudent  a  laying  of  herself  open  to 


24  -  SEVEN   YEAE8. 

the  enemy,  she  withdrew  like  an  artful  spider  to  the  retreat  of 
some  young  shrubs  and  trees,  behind  which  she  lurked  in 
watch  of  the  heedless  fly  opposite ;  of  this  too  she  tired  in  time 
and  entered  the  house,  where  she  stood  behind  curtains,  or 
ascended  the  staircas.e  and  took  her  post  at  landing  windows, 
like  a  warder  in  his  turret;  all  to  no  purpose:  Marie  became 
convinced  of  a  truth,  which  it  had  not  taken  Fanny  two  days  to 
ascertain:  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  looked  up  no  more. _  Pride, 
sense,  both  perhaps,  had  won  that  victory  over  passion  :  the 
young  Fleming  had  not  waited  for  the  threatened  screen  to  bo 
put  up  ;  he  had  forestalled  it  by  the  effort  of  will,  and  thus 
won  one  of  the  greatest  triumphs  he  could  well  win. 

"  The  impertinent  conceited  fellow  !  "  exclaimed  Marie ; 
"  does  he  mean  anything  by  it  ?  " 

"  What  should  he  mean  ?  '  impatiently  replied  Fanny, 
"  who  wants  him  to  look  ?  " 

'•  He  is  sly,"  said  Marie,  "  he  is  sly,  child  ;  I  warrant,  for 
all  his  demureness,  that  many  a  corner  of  his  eye  finds  its  way 
up  here.  " 

Fanny  did  not  reply,  but  hung  her  head  over  her  work  and 
sewed  fi.st. 

There  is  no  knowing  how  long  matters  might  have  gone 
on  so.  Fanny  might  have  worked  in  the  garden  the  whole 
summer  long,  and  Baptiste  might  have  stuffed  sofas  and  chairs 
in  his  shop,  and  looked  up  from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  as  Marie 
said,  but  for  an  event  which  no  one  could  possibly  have  fore- 
seen, and  which  brought  matters  to  a  crisis. 

Fanny  rose  ony  morning  in  her  usual  health.  She  went 
out  to  the  garden,  as  her  wont  was  when  she  spent  the  day 
at  home,  and  she  sat  and  sewed  there.  Towards  noon  her 
head  ached  ;  by  evening  she  felt  feverish ;  in  the  night  she 
awoke  seriously  ill.  A  doctor  was  sent  for  by  dawn ;  he  de- 
clared that  Faimy  had  a  fever  of  the  worst  kind,  and  pronoun- 
ced her  life  in  danger.  How  did  the  news  reach  Baptiste 
Watt  ?  Perhaps  he  missed  Fanny  from  the  garden  and  made 
inquiries  ?  Certain  it  is,  that  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day 
of  Fanny's  illness,  Jean  Baptiste  Watt,  pale  and  haggard- 
looking,  rang  the  bell  at  Madame  la  Roche's  door,  and  asked 
to  speak  to  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

It  was  Marie  who  opened.  Speedy  and  sharp  came  her 
answer. 

"  You  cannot  see  Madame." 

And  she  was  shutting  the  door  in  his  face,  when  Baptiste 
quickly  interposed  his  hand  and  prevented  her  purpose. 


SEVEK    YEABS.  25 

"  I  must  see  her,"  he  said  coolly;   "  and  I  will,"  he  added 
entering  the  ante-room. 

"  You  will  ?  "  said  Marie,  amazed  at  his  audacity. 

Baptiste  shut  the  door,  sat  down  on  the  first  chair  at  hand, 
put  his  hat  on  the  floor  between  his  legs,  and  said  with  an  in- 
crease of  phlegm  : 

"  I  shall  not  stir  from  this  place  till  I  have  seen  Madame 
la  Eoche." 

"  And  though  you  should  stay  here  till  morning,  you  shall 
not  see  her,"  indignantly  cried  Marie. 

There  is  something  exquisitely  provoking  in  the  stolidity  of 
big  people.  Conscious  of  his  size,  strength,  and  immoveable 
purpose,  Baptiste  Watt  did  not  deign  to  stir  or  speak.  His 
ideas  were  naturally  few,  and  he  liad  now  brought  all  his  en- 
ergies to  bear  on  one  particular  idea, — that  it  was  requisite  he 
should  see  Madame  la  Boche  in  order  to  know  the  truth  about 
Fanny  ;  more  he  was  not  equal  to.  But  this  he  was  so  firmly 
resolved  upon,  that  nothing  and  no  one  could  have  made  him 
move  from  where  he  now  was.  Marie  threatened,  scolded,  and 
waxed  red,  and  finally  left  him  tliere,  and  went  to  find  Char- 
lotte, who  was  ironing  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Charlotte  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  do  exert  yourself  for  once, 
ai:d  go  to  that  Fleming  out  there  ;  I  cannot  make  him  move 
from  the  ante-room,  and  I  am  determined  he  shall  not  see 
Madame." 

"  It  is  very  strange  that  you  should  have  let  him  in,"  mis- 
trustfully replied  Cliariotte,  who  saw  a  trap  in  this  speech. 
"  I  always  said  so  to  Monica.  '  Never  let  a  man  in,  my  dear, 
unless  you  wish  him  to  stay.  Ah,  well,  it  is  hard  to  have  but 
one  child,  and  to  have  her  whipped  off  to  America  for  you,  by 
a  good-for-nothing  fellow,  who  gave  himself  out  as  earning  five 
francs  ten  a-day,  and  who  never  did  make  three,  Monica,'  I 
said." 

"  I  never  heard  anything  like  it,"  interrupted  Marie, 
stamping  her  right  foot.  "  I  a.sk  you  to  help  me  to  turn  out  a 
man,  and  you  talk  of  Monica's  husband  to  me." 

"  I  know  you  have  been  wanting  this  curling  iron  all  day," 
replied  Charlotte  ;  "  but  if  you  think  to  make  me  leave  it  and 
my  place  here  by  your  stories  of  men  a,nd  all  that,  you  are  very 
much  mistaken.      I  scorn  such  arts,  thank  Heaven." 

"  The  woman  is  mad,"  charitably  exclaimed  Marie.  "  As 
to  that  young  giant,  we  shall  see  what  the  broomstick  will  do, 
and  whether  he  will  brazen  that  out." 

And  there  is  uo  knowing  to  what  extremities  Marie,  who  had 
2 


26 


SEVEN    YEAKS. 


a  violent  temper,  might  have  proceeded,  if  Madame  la  Roche 
had  not  happened  to  cross  the  ante-room  and  to  see  Baptistc 
sitting  there.  She  gave  him  an  astonished  look,  which,  rising 
at  her  approach,  lie  answered  with  great  caliuuess. 

"  I  know  Madame  has  every  right  to  be  surprised  at  seeing 
me  here,"  he  said,  "  but  I  could  live  no  longer  in  that  state  of 
suspense.  I  know  Madame  is  good,  and  that  she  will  tell  me 
the  truth  about  Mademoiselle  Fanny.  Is  she  really  so  very  ill 
as  the  people  say  ?  " 

The  mild  blue  eyes  of  Madame  la  Roche  fell  with  gentle 
compassion  on  the  worn,  unhappy  face  of  the  speaker. 

"  Poor  young  fellow  !  "  she  said  half  to  herself;  "  why  yes," 
she  added  aloud,  "  yes,  our  poor  little  darling  is  very  ill.  We 
are  in  great  trouble  about  her,  Mons-ieur  Watt, — very  great 
trouble ;  I  really  do  not  know  what  I  shall  do  if  we  should 
lose  the  dear  child,"  added  Madame  la  Roche,  bursting  into 
tears,  "  so  good,  so  afi'ectionale  as  she  has  always  been.  The 
doctor  says  she  is  very  ill,  and — dear  me,  Monsieur  Watt,  I 
hope  you  are  not  going  to  faint !  "  added  Madame  la  Roche, 
startled  at  the  young  man's  appearance. 

He  had  turned  white,  then  yellow;  his  eyes  stared  vacantly 
at  the  wall  before  him  ;  his  heavy  hand  grasped  the  back  of 
the  chair  on  which  he  had  been  sitting,  and  the  whole  of  his 
strong  frame  shook  like  an  undermined  column.  Madame  la 
Roche  stepped  over  to  him,  bewildered  and  frightened,  alid 
fancied  that  she  was  propping  him,  because  she  pushed  her  lit- 
tle upraised  hands  against  his  strong  shoulders. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Marie,  dropping  the  broom- 
stick as  she  entered,   "  that  elephant  is  in  Madame's  arms." 

"  Get  me  some  vinegar,  Marie,"  agitatedly  exclaimed 
Madame  la  Roche,  "  the  poor  child  is  fainting  ! " 

"  The  poor  child  !  "  cried  Marie. 

"  Get  me  some  vinegar,  I  say,"  again  exclaimed  her  mis- 
tress.    "  Do  you  want  him  to  drop  ?  " 

"  No,  for  it  would  not  be  easy  to  pick  him  up  again,"  said 
Marie ;  "  let  Madame  help  me  to  put  him  on  the  chair,  and 
then  we  shall  see  about  the  vinegar." 

In  a  second  it  was  done.  Baptiste  sat  on  the  chair  sup- 
ported by  Madame  la  Roche,  whilst  Marie  zealously  rubbed 
his  nose  with  vinegar. 

"  Poor  child,  poor  child,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  If  Madame  calls  that  man  a  child  " — said  Marie. 

"  Yes,  Marie,  I  do.     He  is  but  a  big  child,  a  poor  foolish 


SEVEN    TEARS.  2Y 

boy  with  a  boyish  heart.  Let  him  aloiie.  Do  you  want  to 
take  his  skin  off  with  that  vinegar  ?  Let  him  alone,  I  say,  he 
is  coming  round." 

Baptiste  was  coming  round  indeed,  for  with  returning  con- 
sciousness he  uttered  a  deep  groan,  stared  at  Madame  la 
Roche  and  Marie,  and,  rising,  he  opened  the  door  and  left 
them  both  without  uttering  a  word. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Was  there  ever  such  an  unmannered  bear  ?  "  exclaimed 
Marie,  wroth  and  amazed  at  siich  extraordinary  behaviour. 

"  Let  him  alone,  poor  boy,"  compassionately  exclaimed 
Madame  la  lioehe,  "  let  him  alone ;  he  takes  away  a  sore  heart 
with  him  ;  and  I  do  not  like  your  severity,  Marie;  indeed  I  do 
not.  Besides,  what  brought  you  here  ?  you  should  be  with 
Fanny.  Is  she  in  a  condition  to  be  left  alone  after  what  the 
doctor  has  said  ?  " 

"  The  doctor  is  an  impostor,"  replied  Marie.  "  He  pre- 
tends that  Fanny  is  ill,  just  because  he  wants  to  be  made 
much  of  if  she  recovers.  I  know  him.  Why,  he  made  the 
poor  child  ill  with  his  last  medicine;  and  I  shall  tell  him  so," 
added  Marie,  walking  away  with  the  cool  self  possession  of  one 
long  used  to  rule. 

"  They  are  too  much  for  me,  that  is  the  truth,"  sighed 
Madame  la  Roche  ;  "  I  sometimes  wish  I  had  not  such  attach- 
ed servants,  and  could  manage  matters  a  little  my  own  way ; 
but  I  sujipose  it  is  no  use  now." 

With  this  despondent  conclusion  Madame  la  Roche  would 
probably  have  remained  satisfied  this  time,  as  she  had  been 
satisfied  many  a  time  before,  if  she  had  not  received  a  further 
and  more  irritating  instance  of  tliat  domestic  rebellion,  in  the 
centre  of  which  she  lived.  She  had  scarcely  left  the  ante- 
room, when  an  impatient  ring  at-  the  door  announced  the  ar- 
rival of  Docteur  Leroy,  the  most  impatient  of  men.  Mario, 
nundful  that  she  had  just  been  sent  to  Fanny's  room,  would  not 
stir  thence;  Charlotte,  suspecting  a  trap  in  the  ring,  remained 
at  her  ironing  ;  the  cook  had  some  all-important  mess  on  the 
fire,  and  did  not  stir  ;  in  short,  every  one's  business  proved  to 
be  no  one's  business,  and,  as  a  third  furious  riue;  was  heard, 
Madame  la  Roche  herself  went  and  admitted  the  doctor,  who 
bounced  in  red  as  a  turkey-cock,  and  scarcely  calmed  down 
on  seeing  the  mistress  of  the  house. 


28  SEVEN   YEAES. 

"  Madame,"  he  began,  "  your  servants — " 

"  I  have  none.  Monsieur  Leroy,"  interrupted  Madame  \s 
Roche.     "I  have  masters,  but  no  servants." 

"  Discharge  them,"  said  Docteur  Leroy,  walking  on  to 
Fanny's  room, — "  discharge  them,  Madame." 

Fanny,  who  was  sleeping,  awoke  as  he  entered.  The  doc- 
tor felt  her  pulse,  and,  with  a  satisfied  look,  declared  the  fever 
had  abated  considerably. 

"  Indeed,"  he  added,  turning  to  Madame  la  Roche,  who 
had  followed  him  in,  "  indeed,  Madame,  I  think  we  may  pro- 
nounce it  all  but  gone  :  the  effect,  you  see,  of  that  last  excellent 
potion,  which  has  been  faithfully  administered,  as  I  perceive 
from  that  empty  phial.     I  believe  I  predicted  the  result." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  faltered  Madame  la  Roche;  "I  am 
so  glad,  Docteur,  I  am  so  glad,  and  so  much  indebted  to  you." 

"  Science,  Madame,"  modestly  replied  Docteur  Leroy, 
"  science,  no  more." 

Marie,  who  had  heard  them  both  with  her  arms  folded 
across  her  ample  person,  and  her  head  and  its  lofty  accom- 
paniment gently  nodding  time  to  their  words,  now  opened  her 
lips,  and  slowly  and  deliberately  uttered  the  ominous  sen- 
tence : 

"  I  hate  imposition." 

Docteur  Leroy  was  a  fiery  and  impatient  man,  but  he  was 
also  a  lofty  man,  and  it  was  with  the  strongest  assumption 
of  loftiness  that,  looking  at  Madame  la  Roche,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Madame  !  " 

But  Madame  la  Roche  only  looked  feeble  and  piteous. 

"  I  say  I  hate  imposition,"  reiterated  Marie;  "  and  I  say 
that  Fanny  has  had  no  other  illness  than  that  which  some 
abominable  medicine  has  given  her.  I  say  too,  sir,  that  the 
last  excellent  potion  you  ordered  is  here,"  she  added,  produc- 
ing a  basin  in  which  she  had  irreverently  thrown  it,  "  and  Fanny 
is  well,  precisely  because  she  did  not  take  it." 

The  Docteur's  temper  here  got  the  better  of  his  dignity. 

"  Woman  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  do  you  know  that  I  can  get 
you  turned  away  for  this?     Do  j'ou  know  it,  I  say?  " 

The  daring  nature  of  this  speech  completely  took  away 
Marie's  breath. 

"Get  me  turned  away!  "  she  screamed  at  length  with  a 
derisive  laugh,  "  get  me  tux'ued  away  ! — ha  !  ha !  " 

Docteur  Leroy  became  very  red. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  turning  to  Madame  la  Roche,  "  I 
cannot  attend  this  young  girl  again  until  you  command  your 


SEVEN    YEARS,  29 

servauts.     What    the  consequences  to  my  patient  may  be  I 
know  not.      I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  ati'air." 

So  saying  he  took  his  hat  and  loftily  walked  out. 

"  Marie,  what  have  you  done  ?"  said  Madame  la  Roche, 
sinking  down  on  a  .chair  ;  "  how  shall  we  manage  with  poor 
dear  Fanny  ?  " 

"  If  Madame  will  only  look  at  poor  dear  Fanny,"  replied 
Marie,  ''  she  will  see  how  much  the  little  chit  is  to  be  pitied  ! " 

Madame  la  lioclie  was  surprised,  there  is  no  denying  it; 
Fanny  was  laughing,  not  loud,  indeed,  for  she  Vias  too  weak, 
but  with  such  good  will  that  tears  were  running  down  ber 
cbeeks. 

"  The  child  was  never  ill,"  triumphantly  resumed  Marie, 
"  and  so  I  would  have  told  that  young  elephant,  if  I  had 
known  what  he  was  so  mad  about;  it  would  have  been  better 
than  all  the  vinegar." 

Madame  la  Koche  thought  that  Fanny  either  did  not  hear, 
or,  bearing  it,  did  not  understand  this  speech,  so  little  impres- 
sion did  it  seem  to  produce  upon  ber,  so  pale  and  calm  did 
she  look  as  it  was  uttered ;  but  in  the  course  of  the  day  Mad- 
ame la  Roche  was  undeceived. 

Marie  bad  left  the  room,  and  the  young  girl  was  alone 
witb  ber  protectress.  She  was  certainly,  and  spite  Docteur 
Leroy's  ominous  adieu,  getting  nmcli  better, — so  much  better, 
that  Madaiue  la  Roche  began  to  rally  round  to  Marie's  opinion, 
and  to  think  that  Fanny  had  never  been  very  ill.  Slie  was 
also  coming  round  to  the  belief,  which  was  never  long  shaken 
in  ber  mind,  that  Marie  was  a  wonderful  woman,  and  wiser 
than  Docteur  Leroy  or  any  one  else  besides,  when  a  low  voice 
roused  her  by  the  following  remark  : 

"Dear  Madame,  who  was  it  Marie  called  a  jouug  ele- 
phant ?  " 

Madame  la  Roche  glanced  down  at  Fanny's  face.  It 
looked  utterly  quiet  and  unconscious,  and  the  good  lady 
searched  for  an  ambiguous  answer,  but  found  none  better  than 
the  very  phiin  one  : 

"  My  dear,  it  was  Monsieur  Watt." 

Fanny's  brown  eyes  opened  wide, — no  doubt  with  surprisa 

"  Monsieur  Watt !  what  Monsieur  Watt?  " 

"  Our  neighbour  the  upholsterer,  my  dear." 

"  How  odd !  what  did  he  come  for,  Madame  ?  " 

*'  My  deal',  do  you  not  know  ?  "  rather  gravely  asked  Mad- 
ame la  Roche,  who  feared  that  Fanny  was  indulging  in  a  little 
duplicity. 


30  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

Fanny  coloured  and  pouted.  Know !  why  should  she 
know  ?  Monsieur  Watt  might  be  come  for  business.  How 
could  she  tell  ? 

"  Well,  perhaps  you   cannot,"  replied   good-natured  Mad 
ame  la  Roche  ;  "  but  the  truth  is,  he  came  to  ask  after  you." 

"  What  ailed  him,  then  ?     What  did  Marie  mean  by  vine 
gar  ?  "  asked  Fanny. 

Here  again  the  truth  came  to  Madame  la  Roche's  lips. 

"My  dear,  he  was  anxious  about  you,  and  I  imprudently 
told  him  you  were,  as  I  thought,  in  some  danger ;  so  the  poor 
young  fellow  nearly  fainted." 

"  Very  foolish  of  him,"  pettishly  said  Fanny  ;  "  I  wish  he 
would  not." 

"  My  dear,  there  is  no  harm  in  it." 

"  I  wish  he  would  not,"  persisted  Fanny,  "  he  is  tiresome." 

"  He  will  not  come  any  more,"  said  Madame  la  Koche. 
"  I  shall  let  him  know  you  are  well  again,  and  he  will  stay 
away." 

"  I  hope  he  will,"  said  Fanny. 

Her  hope  was  fulfilled.  Baptiste,  with  whom  kind  Mad- 
ame la  Roche  had  a  personal  and  private  communication  on 
the  subject,  kept  aloof,  and  Fanny  recovered  rapidly  and  un- 
disturbed. 

But  who  can  answer  for  the  caprices  and  the  wayward 
turnings  of  a  girl's  heart,  especially  when  that  girl  is  sixteen, 
arid  has  been  spoiled  and  ^^etted  from  her  infancy  upwards  ? 

Fanny's  temper  did  not  improve  with  her  returning  health. 
She  was  peevish,  fretful,  impatient.  It  was  very  plain  some- 
thing ailed  her. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  what  is  the  matter  with  the  child,"  pri- 
vately said  Madauje  la  Roche  to  her  two  confidential  advisers, 
Charlotte  and  Marie;  "  nothing  pleases  her.  She  used  not  to 
be  so." 

"  Grirls  never  know  what  they  wish  for,"  replied  Charlotte, 
"  nor  yet  what  is  good  for  them.  I  had  a  cousin,  who  was  as 
happy  as  the  day  was  long,  but  who  was  never  quiet  till  she 
ran  away  with  a  married  man." 

Charlotte's  habit  of  thus  getting  out  of  present  matters 
into  some  past  history  was  a  great  source  of  annoyance  to  Ma- 
rie's fiery  temper,  and  a  frequent  cause  of  quarrel  between  her 
and  Fanny's  god-mother. 

"  And  what  has  the  running  away   of  your  foolish  cousin 
with  a  married  man  to  do  with  Fanny  being  dull  ?  "  she  asked. 
'  Where  is  the  married  man  in  this,  if  you  please  ?  " 


SE^TSlSr   YEARS.  31 

"  There  may  be  one  yet,"  was  Charlotte's  composed  reply, 

Marie  gave  her  a  withering  look,  but  scorning  to  be  drawn 
on  dangerous  ground,  where  Charlotte's  irritating  coolness 
and  thorough  skill  ever  gave  her  every  advantage,  she  broke 
rather  than  entered  on  the  real  matter  at  issue,  by  saying 
hotly : 

"  And  I  say  Fanny  is  in  love  with  that  young  elephant 
( pposite  " 

''■  Oh,  no  !  '  exclaimed  candid  Madame  la  Koche.  "  I  am 
sure  she  does  not  like  him  at  all." 

Marie  gave  her  mistress  a  look  of  infinite  pity,  and  asked 
dryly  : 

"  Shall  I  find  out  whether  she  does  ?  " 

"  I  object  to  that,"  quietly  said  Charlotte;  "  to  find  out 
would  be  to  make  the  child  fall  in  love  directly,  whicb  is  by 
no  means  to  be  desired.  Unless  I  know  more  of  that  young 
man,  I  shall  allow  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  have  had  enouglx 
of  Monica's  unlucky  marriage.  My  daughter  has  been  whip- 
ped off  to  America.  I  will  not  have  my  god-daughter  whip- 
ped off  to  Flariders,  Belgium,  Holland,  or  such  places." 

This  broke  up  the  conference,  and  poor  Madame  la  Roche 
remained  perplexed  between  her  two  advisers,  whose  last 
thought  seemed  to  be  to  give  her  anything  like  real  ^advice; 
but  this  opposition  of  Charlotte's  produced  upon  Marie  the 
effect  opposition  of  any  kind  invariably  brought  about.  With- 
out in  the  least  considering  the  right  or  wrong  of  the  matter, 
she  did  not  allow  an  hour  to  elapse  before  she  entered  the 
shop  of  Jean  Baptiste  Watt,  and  with  a  gently  ironical  air 
asked  to  speak  to  him  in  private. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  phlcgmatically  replied  Baptiste,  rising  from 
his  work,  and  leading  Marie  into  the  back  parlour,  a  gloomy 
room,  whicli  he  rendered  more  gloomy  by  closing  the  door. 
"  Will  you  sit  down  ?  "  he  asked,  pointing  to  a  chair. 

"  No,"  shortly  replied  Marie.  "  I  did  not  come  here  to 
sit,  but  to  talk."  Baptiste  nodded,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  am 
listening," 

"  May  I  ask,"  resumed  Marie,  looking  both  shrewd  and 
searching,  "  may  I  ask  to  know,  sir,  what  you  meant  by  com- 
ing in  the  other  day,  and  fainting  in  our  ante-room  ?  " 

"  I  explained  my  purpose  to  Madame  la  Roche,"  he  re- 
plied coolly  ;  "  that  is  enough." 

"  Does  that  mean,  sir,  that  you  will  say  nothing  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you,"  said  Baptiste. 

'•■  Very  well,    sir,"  wrathfully    replied   Marie,  "  I    xpight 


32  SEVEN   YEAKS. 

have  assisted  you  with  Fanny,  but  mark  my  words,  I  shall 
not  be  your  friend  in  that  quarter." 

Baptiste  Watt  was  never  a  (|uick  speaker ;  he  now  seemed 
to  think  over  his  reply  ;  at  length  it  came  forth  : 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  Madeuioiselle  Fanny.  I  have 
never  spoken  to  her.     Why  do  you  bring  her  name  in  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  stare  at  her  ?  "  indignantly  asked  Marie  ; 
"  why  do  you  stare  at  lier  ?  " 

Baptiste  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"  You  mistake,"  he  said,  "  you  mistake  ;  I  have  not  look- 
ed at  her  for  weeks.  It  was  an  annoyance  and  a  trouble  to 
her,  I  believe,  and  I  have  given  it  up." 

"  Very  well,  sir,  very  well,"  angrily  replied  Marie,  "  make 
much  of  yourself,  do.  I  thank  Heaven  that  I  never  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  your  sex ;  that  T  never  would,"  added  Marie 
with  significant  emphasis,  "  good  morning,  sir." 

"  Good  morning,"  phlegmatically  replied  Baptiste,  and 
opening  the  parlour  door,  he  saw  her  out ;  but  Marie  had  not 
crossed  the  threshold  door  before  Baptiste  was  again  at  his 
work. 

Marie  did  not  boast  of  her  errand  or  its  ill-success,  but 
the  whole  day  long  she  brooded  over  a  scheme  of  revenge, 
which  was  destined  to  be  destroyed  in  its  very  birth  by  events 
stronger  than  her  will. 

It  so  chanced  that  Fanny  was  more  fantastical  than  ever 
on  that  afternoon.  Nothing  pleased  her,  though  she  wished 
for  many  things;  Madame  la  Roche,  who  was  alone  with  her, 
bore  all  these  caprices  with  the  easiest  good  humour,  only 
saying  once  or  twice,  "  My  dear  child,  what  can  ail  you  ?  " 

To  which  Fanny  replied  with  an  impatient,  "  Oh  !  nothing 
ails  me." 

"  But  I  think  something  does  ail  you,"  at  length  rejoined 
Madame  la  Pvoche ;  "  yes,  I  really  think  something  does  ail 
you." 

Fanny  looked  provoked,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  I  have  just  received  a  very  unexpected  visit,  and  have  had 
a  long  conversation  with  my  visitor,"  pursued  the  elder  lady. 
*'  I  thought  it  would  spare  you  some  trouble  if  I  repeated  to 
you  what  pa-ised,  v/ithout  bringing  Monsieur  Watt  himself  to 
say  it.  My  dear,  you  need  not  colour  up  so  ;  it  is  very  nat- 
ural ;  the  young  man  likes  you,  and  wants  to  marry  you ;  not 
now,  of  course, — you  are  too  young,  and  he  is  only  beginning 
business,  and  he  is  a  very  sensible  young  man ;  but  it  seems 
that  was   the  meaning  of  his  looking  up  so  much ;  so  if  you 


SEVEN    YEAKS.  33 

like  him,  we  ueed  uot  put  up  tlie  screen,  which  always  hung  so 
heavy  on  my  mind  ;  for  I  felt  as  if  it  should  have  been  put  up, 
yet  I  could  not  gather  courage  to  see  to  it.  And  now,  my 
dear,  all  lies  with  vou.      Say  yes  or  no." 

Fanny  threw  her  arms  around  the  nock  of  Madame  la 
Roche.  "  Dear  Madame,"'  she  said,  "  I  do  not  want  to  say 
yes  or  no.     I  am  too  young,  I  do  not  know  my  own  mind." 

''  My  dear,  it  must  be  no,  then,"  said  Madame  la  Roche, 
very  gravely. 

"  But  I  do  not  want  it  to  be  no."  impatiently  replied 
Fanny;  "  he  is  big  and  stupid,  and  a  Fleiniug,  but  still  1  like 
him  very  well.  I  know  he  took  my  illness  to  heart,  and  I  like 
him.     Surely,  I  need  not  say  that  I  shall  marry  him  for  that." 

"  My  dear,  it  must  be  yes  or  no,"  persisted  Madame  la 
Koche.  Upon  which  Fanny  pouted  and  looked  so  dismal, 
that  the  kind-hearted  lady  rose,  left  the  room,  and  held  a 
solemn  council  with  her  two  prime  ministers.  The  debate 
was  long  and  stormy.  Charlotte,  still  mhidful  of  the  loss  of 
Monica,  was  for  not  giving  this  designing  Fleming  a  foot  in 
the  place ;  Marie,  resentfully  remembering  her  recent  repulse, 
vehemently  denounced  him  as  an  impostor,  second  only  to 
Docteur  Leroy. 

Madame  la  Roche  withdrew,  deeply  perplexed  by  the  un- 
usual agreement  of  two  who  never  agreed ;  but  her  perplexity 
did  not  last  long,  for  scarcely  had  she  retired  to  her  room  to 
think  over  it  five  minutes,  when  Charlotte  mysteriously  en- 
tered. 

"  Madame  knows  how  much  I  like  peace  and  a  quiet  life," 
she  significantly  began,  "  and  Marie  has  such  a  dreadful  tem- 
per, and  flies  out  so,  that  one  cannot  be  too  careful;  I  have 
therefore  come  to  tell  Madame  my  real  opinion  in  this  matter, 
and  it  is,  that  it  is  best  to  let  the  chikl  have  her  own  way  ;  but, 
of  course,  Madame  will  do  as  she  pleases." 

With  tliis  kind  permission  Charlotte  retired,  leaving 
Madame  la  Roche  very  much  inclined  to  avail  her.self  of  the 
leave  and  advice  she  had  received ;  but  in  considerable  un- 
easiness of  mind,  considering  what  Marie  would  say,  should 
she  venture  to  do  so.  From  this  second  perplexity  she  was 
relieved  by  the  appearance  of  Marie,  who,  luckily  unconscious 
of  Charlotte's  covert  desertion,  walked  in  and  roundly  said  to 
her  mistress: 

"  Madame  may  think  what  she  likes,  but  it  is  no  use  going 
contrary  to  girls;  and  since  Fanny  has  set  her  mind  on  that 
young  elephant,  the   best  thing  is  not  to  go  contrary  to  her, 


34  SEVEN    YEARS. 

but  just  let  her  have  her  will,  and  she  will  get  sick  of  him  of 
her  own  accord." 

''  There  is  a  great  deal  of  sense  in  what  you  say,  Marie," 
replied  her  mistress;  '' but  if  I  thought  Fanny  was  trifling 
■with  that  young  man,  I  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  I 
have  a  feeling  for  him." 

Marie  gave  Madame  la  Roche  a  compassionate  look,  and 
went  away  with  an  "Ah,  well!"  at  the  idea  of  having  any 
feeling  for  anything  in  masculine  shape,  that  spoke  volumes 
touching  her  opinion  of  the  male  sex.  But  there  were  mat- 
ters on  which  Madame  la  Roche  could  be  obstinate,  and  after 
an  interview  and  a  conversation  of  some  length  with  Jean 
Baptiste  Watt,  she  went  back  to  the  room  where  Fanny  sat 
alone,  read  her  a  gentle  homily  on  the  wickedness  of  trifling 
with  an  honest  young  man ;  and  finally  exacting  no  promises, 
but  leaving  all  to  Fanny's  good  sense  and  good  feeling,  she 
informed  her  that  Baptiste  was  coming  to  see  her. 

"  I  have  warned  him  that  you  do  not  pledge  yourself," 
she  continued,  "  that  this  is  a  mere  friendly  visit ;  it  now  lies 
witli  you  not  to  deceive  him,  which  would  be  cruel  and 
wicked." 

Fanny  did  not  reply ;  she  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  her 
bead  resting  on  a  pillow,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap;  a  faint 
blush  rose  to  her  pale  and  wasted  cheeks,  her  lids  fell,  and  her 
lips  parted  to  murmur  some  inaudible  assent. 

"  My  dear,  we  take  it  for  granted,"  readily  said  Madame 
la  Roche ;  ''  and  I  believe  here  he  is." 

The  door  opened,  and  Baptiste,  red,  confused,  and  affected, 
spite  all  his  phlegm,  entered  the  room. 

"  Our  neighbour.  Monsieur  Watt,  has  called  to  see  you, 
my  dear,"  said  Madame  la  Roche  with  great  dignity ;  "  pray 
take  a  chair,  Monsieur  Watt." 

Monsieur  Watt,  who  looked  exceedingly  uncomfortable, 
nevertheless  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  looking  at  Fanny,  seemed 
to  ask  for  something  besides  the  icy  nod  with  which  he  had 
been  welcomed.  But,  spite  the  kind  efforts  of  Madame  la 
Roche  to  compel  the  young  girl  to  talk,  it  is  doubtful  whether 
she  would  have  done  more  than  open  her  lips,  but  for  the  un- 
expected entrance  of  Charlotte  and  Marie.      • 

Both  the  prime  ministers  of  Madame  la  Roche,  like  other 
prime  ministers  in  this,  entertained  a  secret  and  scarcely  dis- 
guised pity  for  the  judgment  of  their  sovereign.  To  both 
occurred  the  same  doubt  concerning  the  propriety  of  allowing 
Fanny  to  meet  with  Baptiste  Watt  under  no  other  surveiilanco 


SEVEN    YEAES.  35 

than  that  of  their  simple  mistress,  and  both,  accordingly, 
scarcely  heard  him  enter,  when  they  separately  proceeded  to 
the  room  where  the  interview  was  taking  place.  On  meeting 
they  exchanged  covert  glances,  each  believing  the  other 
taken  by  surprise,  and  expecting  signs  of  war,  waiting  for 
which,  one  took  up  her  position  on  the  left  side  of  Fanny,  and 
the  other  on  the  right.  Madame  la  Roohe  looked  annoyed, 
and  Baptiste  confounded  ;  Fanny,  understanding  the  drift  of 
this  simultaneous  vist,  and  resenting  it  greatly,  resolved  on 
rebellion,  and,  calling  up  her  most  gracious  looks  and  smiles, 
began  a  lively  conversation  with  Baptiste. 

"  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  calling,  Monsieur  Watt," 
she  said;  "  you  cannot  imagine  how  dull  I  feel,  locked  up  as 
I  am  from  morning  till  night.  Do  give  me  some  news  of  the 
world  :  I  know  nothing." 

And  whilst,  charmed  and  surprised  at  the  change,  Baptiste 
was  meditating  what  answer  to  give  her,  Fanny,  without  wait- 
ing for  his  reply,  started  a  new  subject  of  conversation,  and 
kept  up  the  burden  of  the  discourse  with  an  ease  that  showed 
how  little  she  felt  the  task.  When  Baptiste  rose  to  go,  she 
smiled,  held  out  her  hand,  and  graciously  said:  "You  will 
come  again,  Monsieur  Watt,  will  you  not  ?  " 

Baptiste  looked  at  Madame  la  lloche,  who  smiled  and 
sighed  as  she  said  : 

"  Of  course  Monsieur  Watt  will  come  again." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Baptiste  came  again  ;  and  moreover  Madame  la  Roche 
managed  matters  so  cleverly  that  Marie  and  Charlotte  were 
kept  out  of  the  way,  and  he  saw  Fanny  in  her  presence,  which, 
she  was  so  easy  and  good-natured,  might  almost  be  called 
seeing  her  alone.  Fanny,  indeed,  was  very  coy,  very  high 
and  fantastic,  but  still  she  was  pleasant  with  it  all,  and  Bap- 
tiste was  too  much  smitten  not  to  be  charmed  with  her,  how- 
ever she  might  be. 

They  thus  had  two  or  three  meetings,  which,  that  there 
might  be  no  impropriety  in  it,  and  that  neighbours  might  make 
no  odd  conjectures  and  begin  to  talk  about  little  Fanny, 
Madame  la  Roche  rendered  imperative  and  business-like,  by 
consulting  Baptiste  on  a  set  of  chairs  she  and  Fanny  were  go- 
ing to  work, — a  vast  undertaking,  in  which  it  might  be  con- 
fidently predicted  that  Madame  la  lloche  would  act  the  part 


36  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

of  sleeping  partner,  and  Fanny  do  tlie  real  business  of  the 
firm.  Baptiste  had  a  good  deal  to  say  on  this  important 
matter.  He  had  to  help  the  two  ladies  to  choose  patterns  ; 
he  had  next  to  submit  to  their  approbation  the  designs  of  the 
chairs,  to  consult  them  on  gimp,  fringe,  gilt  nails,  &c.,  and  he 
might  have  come  to  and  fro  a  dozen  times  with  ease,  if,  with 
all  her  easy  good-nature,  Madame  la  Roche  had  not  brought 
matters  to  a  crisis. 

Fanny  was  now  well,  though  still  too  weak  to  resume  her 
work ;  her  kind  friends  at  least  thought  so,  and  kept  her  at 
home.  Madame  la  Roche  was  of  opinion  that  early  walks  were 
the  best  thina:  for  her,  ar.-d  that  nowhere  would  or  could 
Fanny  get  such  pure  bracing  air,  as  in  Madame  la  Roche's 
ancestral  garden.  Around  these  demesnes  she  accordingly 
took  her  every- morning,  declaring  there  was  nothing  like  gentle 
exercise  in  the  open  air  for  bodily  health. 

These  walks  Madame  la  Roche  and  Fanny  took  alone,  and 
thus,  after  Baptiste  had  paid  two  or  three  of  a  series  of  visits 
that  threatened  to  be  endless,  Madame  la  Roche  had  the  op- 
portunity of  talking  seriously,  as  she  called  it,  to  her  little 
protegee. 

"  Oh  !  Madame,  do  look  at  that  bird,"  exclaimed  Fanny, 
stopping  before  the  avairy  and  laughing  at  a  white  cockatoo, 
gravely  blancing  itself  on  its  perch. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  but  I  must  talk  about  Monsieur  Watt  to 
you." 

No  one  can  answer  for  the  strange  fancies  of  girls.  A  sud- 
den and  ludicrous  resemblance  between  the  cockatoo  and  her 
admirer  struck  Fanny,  and  she  laughed  until  the  tears  ran 
down  her  cheek.  Madame  la  Roche  was  puzzled  at  this  strange 
merriment;  still  more  puzzled  when  Fanny  explained  its 
cause ;  and  gravely,  though  kindly,  she  assured  the  young  girl 
she  saw  no  likeness  between  those  two  individuals, — the  cocka- 
too and  Jean  Baptiste  Watt, — an  assurance  that  nearly  sent 
Fanny  off  again.  For,  of  course,  she  knew  they  were  not 
alike  ;  a  pretty  thing  if  they  were  ! 

"  My  dear,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  "  you  must  not  laugh 
about  these  things,  especially  this  morning,  for  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  quite  seriously  about  Baptiste.  You  know,  my  dear 
be  cannot  keep  coming  here.     It  is  out  of  the  question." 

Fanny  looked  very  blank. 

"  It  is  out  of  the  question,"  resumed  Madame  la  Roche ; 
"  Monsieur  Noiret  is  surprised  at  my  allowing  so  much  inter- 
course between  you.     It  seems  I  have  been  quite  foolish." 


SEVEN   YEARS.  37 

"  I  detest  Monsieur  Noiret !  "  cried  Fauny,  lookiug  ready  to 
shed  tears. 

"  My  dear,  Monsieur  Noiret  is  your  best  friend,"  said 
Madame  la  Roche. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  he.  He  broke  my  doll  when  I  was  a  child, 
and  I  have  hated  hira  ever  since." 

"  It  was  an  accident,  my  love." 

"  Madame,  he  trod  on  it  on  purpose.  I  saw  his  heel  on 
her  poor  face.  I  declare  I  still  hear  the  crash,  and  I  hate 
him  !  My  best  friend  !  oh,  no,  you  are  my  best  friend,  dear 
Madame."  And  Fanny  gently  and  tenderly  twined  her  arms 
around  Madame  la  lioche's  neck. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  that  lady,  "  but  Baptiste  must  not 
come  any  more, — or  if  he  comes,"  she  added,  looking  Fanny 
in  the  face,  "  it  must  be  as  your  betrothed  husband." 

Fanny  did  not  reply. 

"  ^Vhy  not  agree  to  marry  him,  say  two  years  hence,"  pur- 
sued the  elder  lady ;  "  his  pi'ospects  are  good,  his  character  is 
excellent,  it  is  a  good  offer,  and  you  seem  to  like  him  ?  He 
certainly  likes  you  dearly ;  what  more  is  needed  in  marriage  ? 
But  trifle  with  him,  my  dear,  you  must  not ;  so  pray  make  up 
your  mind.     Will  you  have  him  ?  " 

Thus  pressed.  Fanny  did  make  up  her  mind,  and  from  that 
day  Jean  Baptiste  Watt  was  an  accepted  suitor.  The  be- 
trothal took  place  that  same  evening  with  some  solemnity  in 
the  old  drawing-room,  which  Madame  la  Koche  never  used  un- 
less on  state  occasions,  and  in  the  awful  presence  of  Charlotte 
and  Marie,  who  stood  looking  on  like  two  grim  statues  of 
watchfulness.  But  there  was  nothing  to  watch.  Madame  la 
Roche  sat  in  her  chair  and  made  a  gentle  little  speech  to  Bap- 
tiste, who  stood  twirling  his  cap  in  his  hand  with  rather  an 
awkward  look,  and  to  Fanny  who  stood  by  him,  short  and 
saucy,  though  endeavouring  to  look  both  meek  and  demure. 

"  My  dear  children,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  "  with  your 
choice  I  have  nothing  to  do.  You  have  both  chosen  for  your- 
selves,— I  hope  and  trust  you  have  chosen  wisely ;  but  itrith 
your  behaviour,  before  that  choice  is  made  legal  and  binding, 
I  have  something  to  do  in  the  way  of  good  counsel.  You  must 
be  very  patient,  Baptiste ;  you,  Fanny,  must  be  very  good, — 
but,  dear  me,"  interrupted  Madame  la  Roche,  who  was  getting 
tired,  "  I  need  say  no  more,  you  know  all  about  it, — give  him 
your  hand,  Fcinny,  and  let  it  be  over." 

Fanny  did  as  she  was  bid  ;  Baptiste  grasped  her  hand  with 
some  emotion. 


38  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

"  Fanny,"  he  said,  addressing  her  for  the  first  time  Ly  her 
Christian  name,  "  Fanny,  do  you  really  mean  it, — do  you  like 
me  ?  " 

"  I  forbid  Fanny  to  answer  that  question,"  said  the  calm 
voice  of  Charlotte;  ''no  girl  entertaining  an  atoai  of  self-re- 
spect ought  to  tell  a  man  she  likes  him,  until  she  has  been  mar- 
ried to  him  a  sufficient  length  of  time  to  know  her  own  mind." 
A  deep  silence  followed  these  ominous  words.  Marie  was 
thinking  how  to  contradict  them  without  taking  the  part  of 
JJaptiste  ;  Madame  la  Roche  did  not  dare  to  oppose  what  she 
could  not  help  considei-ing  too  harsh  a  sentence ;  and  13aptiste, 
confounded  and  somewhat  di-^mayed,  looked  from  Charlotte  to 
bis  betrothed,  and  from  her  again  to  her  god-mother.  Fanny 
watched  him  a  little  while,  then  darting  a  rebellious  look  be- 
hiud  her,  she  raised  lierself  up  on  tiptoe,  and  whispered  as  near 
Baptiste's  ear  as  she  could  reach  : 

"  My  good  old  Baptiste,  do  you  mind  no  one  but  Fanny." 
He  took  both  her  hands,  and  grasping  them,  looked  hard 
in  her  face. 

"  Say  you  like  me,  say  you  really  do  !  "  he  exclaimed  with 
some  force. 

Fanny  was  half  frightened  at  his  earnestness. 
"  I   really   do,'-  she  replied,  "  but  let  my  hands  go,  pray 
do." 

Baptiste  released  her  hands,  but  first  he  stooped  and  kissed 
her  on  either  cheek. 

Two  screams  of  hoiror  arose  from  the  statues  behind,  but 
Fanny  only  laughed  and  blashed,  and  Madame  la  Boche, 
rising,  did  not  wait  for  attack  to  defend  the  culprit. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  she  said,  nodding ;  "  when  I  was  be- 
trothed to  Monsieur  la  Boche  in  this  very  room,  fiftj'-three 
years  ago,  he  did  precisely  the  same  thing ;  only,"  she  added 
with  a  gentle  touch  of  reproof,  "  he  first  requested  my  dear 
mother's  permission." 

Baptiste  reddened  and  stammered  an  apology. 
*'  Only  you  see,  Madame,"  he  added,  '"  there  are  things 
that  upset  a  man,  and  to  have  my  little  Fanny  forbidden  to 
say  she  liked  me  was  more  than  I  could  bear.  And  with  all 
due  respect  to  those  whom  I  must  respect,  of  course,"  added 
Baptiste,  looking  firmly  at  Charlotte  and  Marie,  and  drawing 
Fancy's  arm  within  his  own,  "  this  girl  is  mine  or  she  is  not. 
If  she  is  mine,"  he  continued  strongly, ''  she  must  like  me,  or—" 
"  Now  do  not  be  foolish,"  interrupted  Fanny,  shutting  hia 
mouth  with  her  little  fingers ;  "  I  shall  like  you  just  as  much 


SEVEN    YEAKS,  39 

as  I  please,  neither   more  nor  less."     And,  meek  as  a  lamb, 
Baptiste  submitted. 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

Two  years  had  slipped  by. 

Madame  la  Roche  had'  fallen  fast  asleep  in  her  chair.  The 
fire  burned  brightly,  the  hiinp  !<hed  a  subdued  light,  the  room 
was  warm  within;  without  the  night  was  stormy,  the  rain 
beat  against  the  window  shutters,  the  wind  moaned  round  the 
street  corner, — in  short,  nothing  was  wanted  to  make  au  even- 
ing nap  comfortable  and  pleasant. 

But  human  happiness  is  fleeting;  the  heavy  street  door 
opened  and  closed  again  with  a  hollow  sound;  Madame  la 
Roche  started,  sighed,  and  awoke. 

"  Alone  !  "  she  said  gently,  "  they  always  leave  me  alone  ; 
they  are  very  tiresome." 

She  said  it  in  the  softest  voice,  a  voice  that  suited  her 
pleasant  face,  framed  in  white  hair  and  a  dainty  lace  cap,  a 
voice  that  did  no.t  jar  with  the  quiet  enclosed  room,  warm  and 
shrouded,  in  which  Madame  la  Roche  was  left  to  the  solitude 
she  lamented. 

It  was  her  bed-room  ;  one  of  those  chambres  a  coucher 
salons  that  have  so  long  scandalized  decorous  English  travel- 
lers. Here  Madame  la  Roche  received  her  visitors  and 
friends.  The  drawing-room,  the  real  salon,  was  kept  for  state 
occasions,  like  the  betrothal  of  Fanny,  that  occurred  seldom, 
and  the  bed-room,  with  its  old,  yet  valuable  furniture,  pro- 
fusely ornamented  with  brass  rods,  knobs,  and  handles,  did 
duty  instead.  Madame  la  Roche  seemed  made  for  that  room, 
she  suited  it  so  well  with  her  lace  cap,  wadded  silk  dress,  and 
nice  black  mittens  on  her  little  white  dimpled  hands ;  and 
that  she  was  really  made  for  it  she  probably  thought  herself, 
for  she  seldom  left  it,  now  especially  that  winter  and  cold 
had  both  set  in.  But  if  she  liked  her  room,  she  particularly 
objected  to  being  left  alone  in  it,  and  therefore  on  awakening 
from  her  evening  nap,  and  finding  herself  in  utter  solitude, 
she  said  with  her  usual  gentleness  of  tone  and  speech  :  "  They 
arc  very  tiresome." 

Scarcely  were  the  words  uttered,  when  Marie,  the  head 
ofi"ender,  for  it  was  her  especial  duty  to  be  with  Madame  la 
Roche  whilst  that  lady  slept,  entered  the  room. 

"Marie,"  began  Madame  la  Roche,  "I  thought  it  was 
agreed  you  were  to  sit  and  sew  here  while  I  slept." 


40  SEVEN    YEARS. 

"  If  I  had  not  Madame  Charlotte's  work  to  do  as  ■ivell  as 
my  own,"  strongly  replied  Marie,  "  I  might  attend  to  all  nij 
duties,  but  when  1  am  left  to  open  the  door  and  all  that,  I  can- 
not exactly  be  sitting  with  Madame." 

"  And  Fanny,"  said  Madame  la  Roche. 

"  Oh  !  if  Madame  finds  fault  with  Fanny  " — ironically 
began  Marie. 

"  No  such  a  thing,"  interrupted  her  mistress,  "  and  I  beg 
that  you  will  not  find  fault  with  her, — I  do  not  like  it." 

"  Nor  do  I,"  said  Marie,  darting  a  wrathful  look  at  the 
door,  or  more  probably  at  some  one  lurking  within  its  shadow, 
"  and  I  think  that  if  people  cannot  make  themselves  be  loved, 
they  had  better  be  quiet.  Come  in.  Monsieur  Baptiste,  and 
do  not  stand  there  like  a  post." 

This  adjuration  not  having  had  a  sufficiently  speedy  effect, 
Marie  resolutely  dragged  in  our  old  friend,  Jean  Baptiste 
Watt,  who  came  in  towerip.gto  the  ceiling  of  the  room,  which, 
to  his  seeming  confusion,  he  pretty  well  half  filled. 

"  I  declare,"  said  Marie,  breathless,  "  that  boy  is  as  big  as 
a  young  elephant — and  as  stupid  too,  I  think,"  she  added, 
muttering.  '"  Well,  now,  what  have  you  to  say  to  Madame 
about  Fanny  ?  for  I  know  your  errand  beforehand,  I  warn 
you." 

And,  prepared  to  fight  her  little  friend's  battles,  Marie 
folded  her  arms,  and  putting  her  head  on  one  side,  looked  sar- 
castically at  Baptiste.  He  was  but  little  altered,  and  still 
looked  the  same  calm,  steady,  phlegmatic  Fleming  he  had 
looked  two  years  before. 

"  Good  evening,  Baptiste,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  return- 
ing his  greeting  with  a  gentle  nod  ;  "  are  not  matters  going  on 
well  between  you  and  Fanny  ?     What  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  Yes,  what  have  you  done  ?  "  suspiciously  asked  Marie, 
•  I  am  sure  you  are  in  the  wrong." 

"  Pel  haps  I  am,"  phlegniatically  replied  Baptiste,  "  at  all 
events,  Marie,  I  do  not  come  to  accuse  her.  I  only  want  what 
Madauie  can  get  for  me,  and  what  I  cannot  got  for  myself;  a 
fair,  straightforward  answer." 

"  You  must  have  patience,  you  really  must,"  said  Madamo 
la  Roche.      "  Fanny  cannot  be  hurried." 

"  I  have  waited  these  two  years,"  replied  Baptiste,  sedately. 
"  I  have  been  put  ofi:'  from  one  three  months  to  another, — I 
cannot  wait  for  ever." 

"  You  really  must  be  patient,"  again  said  Madame  la 
Roche. 


SEVEN    YEARS.  41 

Baptiste  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  from  the  morning  when  I  saw  Fanny 
gathering  flowers  in  your  garden  I  liked  her.  I  said  so  to 
you,  to  her  god-mother,  and  to  her.  We  were  betrothed. 
Every  one  that  knew  me  said  I  had  done  a  foolish  thing.  1 
was  new  in  business,  but  I  had  good  prospects,  and  two  hun- 
dred francs  a  year  of  my  own;  and  though  I  might  have 
looKed  for  a  wife  with  money,  and  though  every  one  says  I  am 
fond  of  money — and  so  I  am,  and  who  is  not  ? — I  never  asked 
for  a  sou  with  Fanny.  What  you  promised,  Madame,  you 
promised  of  your  own  accord." 

"  Well,  1  am  willing  to  keep  to  my  word,"  said  Madame  la 
Roche. 

"  But  Fanny  will  not  keep  to  her  word,"  resumed  Baptiste, 
looking  gloomy.  "  I  like  her  dearly, — she  knows  it,  and 
laughs  at  me  for  my  pains.  Well,  men  arc  fools  if  they  are 
all  like  me.  When  I  thought  all  settled  a  year  ago,  Made- 
moiselle Fanny  told  me  she  did  not  like  my  shop,  with  the  back 
parlour,  the  bed,  the  table,  and  two  chairs.  Then,  when  she 
saw  me  exasperated,  she  put  out  her  hand,  patted  me  on  the 
arm,  and  said  if  I  would  only  wait  three  months,  we  should 
see.  Well,  men  ai-e  fools  !  I  waited  three  months,  and  was 
put  off  for  another  three  months,  because  she  was  too  young. 
After  that  came  three  months  because  she  did  not  know  her 
own  mind ;  and  for  the  same  reason  I  have  been  put  off  until 
now,  but  I  will  wait  uo  longer, — I  told  her  so  yesterday;  she 
only  laughed,  but  I  am  resolved,  I  am ;  and  in  your  presence, 
Madame,  and  with  your  permission,  Fanny  shall  give  me  a 
plain  yes  or  no  this  evening." 

Madame  la  Roche  had  heard  him  out  with  the  sleepy  pla- 
cidity of  her  nature, — Marie,  with  folded  arms,  that  boded 
war,  and  an  ominous  smile. 

"  And  so,"  she  said,  wagging  her  head  gently  from  side  to 
side,  "  that  is  what  you  are  come  for.  Monsieur  Baptiste,  to 
abuse  the  poor  dear  child;  to  me,  her  friend,  and  to  Madame, 
her  protectress.     You  amaze  me,  sir,  you  amaze  me  1 " 

"  I  have  told  the  truth,"  sturdily  said  Baptiste,  "  and 
Fanny  will  not  deny  a  word  of  it ;  besides,  all  I  ask  for  is  a 
plain  yes  or  no." 

"  And  why  should  you  get  it  ?  "  resumed  Marie. 

"Why?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Marie  strongly,  and  looking  at  Madame  la 
Roche,  "  why  should  Fanny  give  him,  or  any  one  else,  a  plain 
yes  or  no  as  he  calls  it,  unless  she  so  pleases  ?  " 


42  BEVEN    YEAES. 

This  stroDo;  assertion  of  female  rights  startled  Madame  la 
Roche. 

"  Well,  Marie."  she  said  gently,  "  I  really  think  Fanny 
ought  to  do  that." 

"  Oh !  if  Madame  turns  against  her,"  said  Marie,  with 
lofty  indignation,  "  I  need  not  wonder  that  Madame  Charlotte 
should  take  the  young  man's  part,  in  preference  to  her  own 
god-daughter's." 

"  By  the  way,"  meditatively  said  Madame  la  Eoche,  "  T 
think  we  ought  to  consult  with  Charlotte,  she  is  the  child's 
god-mother,  she  can  advise  her ;   yes,  call  Charlotte." 

Marie  tossed  her  head,  and  nodded  her  lofty  cap,  and  it  is 
doubtful  whether,  being  gifted  with  an  independent  turn  of 
mind,  she  would  have  obeyed  the  order  of  Madame  la  Roche, 
— whom  she  considered  as  much  intended  by  Providence  for 
her,  Marie's  comfort,  as  she,  Marie,  was  meant  for  Madame  la 
Roche's  convenience, — if  Charlotte,  drawn  by  an  intuitive 
knowledge  of  what  was  going  on,  had  not  made  her  appear- 
ance with  a  freshly-ironed  cap  in  her  hand,  by  way  of  apology 
for  her  intrusion. 

"  Charlotte,  we  want  you !  "  exclaimed  Madame  la  Roche 
with  a  sigh,  "  Fanny  is  not  getting  on  with  Baptiste.  Had 
you  not  better  interfere  ?  " 

From  the  tone  of  Madame  la  Roche,  Charlotte  concluded 
that  Marie  had  sided  with  the  lover  ;  and,  of  coursa,  she  took 
part  with  Fann3^ 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  contradict  Madame,"  she  said  decor- 
ously, "  nor  to  oppose  Madame,  but  there  arc  ways  of  dealing 
with  girls,  and  when  lovei's  will  not  take  those  ways,  girls  will 
be  oifended  and  show  it." 

•'  I  do  not  see  that,"  put  in  Marie. 

Charlotte  ignored  the  remark,  and  pursued  : 

"  My  god-daughter  has  been  used  to  admiration,  which  she 
deserves.     Monsieur  Baptiste  does  not  admire  her  enough." 

"  I  do  not  admire  her  enough  !  "  cried  Baptiste,  "  why, 
what  more  can  I  do  than  wish  to  marry  her  ?  Is  not  that 
admiration  ?  " 

"  Besides,  Fanny  is  not  such  a  fool  as  all  that,"  observed 
Marie,  stoutly. 

"  I  have  long  been  awai-e  that  my  god-daughter  was  dis- 
liked in  this  house,"  resignedly  said  Charlotte,  "  but  I  never 
before  heard  lier  called  a  fool.  I  hope  that  gross  word  haa 
been  applied  to  her  for  the  first  and  last  time, — iii  ray  pres- 
ence, at  least." 


.-.EVEN   YEARS.  43 

"  Marie,  hold  jour  tougue  !  "  hastily  exclaimed  Madame  la 
Roche,  who,  tliough  Marie  haduot  yet  uttered  a  word,  thought 
it  best  to  forestall  the  offence  by  the  prohibition,  "  Charlotte, 
be  silent !  Baptiste,  I  beg  you  will  not  add  another  syllable. 
I  can  scarcely  wonder  at  your  not  getting  on  with  Fanny, 
when  I  see  how  you  upset  my  whole  household.  And  alto- 
gether," added  Madame  la  Koche,  sinking  back  in  her  chair 
exhausted  with  this  long  speech,  and  this  unusual  exertion  of 
authority,  "  altogether,  I  think  we  had  better  leave  this  mat- 
ter to  Fanny.      Let  her  say  and  do  as  she  wislies." 

"  Madame,"  coolly  said  Baptiste,  "  that  is  exactly  what  I 
wish  for,  let  her  give  me  a  plain  yes  or  no.  I  know  there  is  a 
foolish  little  fellow  opposite,  who  looks  after  her;  but  that," 
added  Baptiste  with  a  tragic  frown,  "  is  a  matter  to  be  settled 
between  him  and  me." 

He  did  not  proceed  :  a  light  tap  was  heard  at  the  door, 
and  almost  immediately  Fanny  eutei'ed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Two  years  had  altered  Fanny.  She  was  not  much  taller, 
it  is  true,  but  she  had  grown  decidedly  plump.  The  freshness 
of  a  rose  had  settled  on  her  cheeks,  which  two  dimples  adorned. 
And  with  her  bright  black  eyes,  red  lips,  and  white  teeth, 
Fanny  looked  and  was  a  very  pretty  girl  indeed.  Yet  these 
charms,  though  real,  could  scarcely  account  for  the  fascination 
of  which  Baptiste  was  victim.  He  had  loved,  when  Fanny 
was  a  slim,  sallow  girl,  whom  most  people  thought  plain.  With 
his  fondness  her  beauty  had  nothing  to  do.  And  who,  that 
scanned  her  neatly-fitting  merino,  her  tiny  apron,  in  the 
pockets  of  which  her  hands  rested  with  coquettish  grace,  who, 
above  all,  that  saw  the  white  fantastic  cap  perched  on  tlie  top 
of  her  head,  could  suppose  that  Fanny  miglit  become  the  hero- 
ine of  a  love  tragedy,  or,  at  least,  of  a  melo-drama.  It  seemed 
absurd ;  comedy,  light,  careless  comedy,  was  written  in  the 
whole  aspect  of  the  Parisian  girl.  As  well  might  two  men 
draw  swords  about  a  butterfly,  as  quarrel  for  the  preference  of 
this  flighty,  pert-looking  little  creature. 

But  there  is  no  accounting  for  tastes.  Baptiste  was  a 
grave,  sober  Fleming ;  yet  no  sooner  did  Fanny  make  her  ap- 
pearance in  the  room  of  Madame  la  iloche,  than  he  turned  red, 
then  pale,  and  in  -short,  betrayed  every  sign  of  strong  emotion. 
On  seeing  him.  Fanny  pouted  like  a  naughty  child  who   ex- 


4.4  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

pects  a  scolding,  and  knows  that  the  said  scolding  is  de« 
served. 

"  Fanny,"  mildly  said  Madame  la  Koclie,  "what  is  tho 
meanhig  of  all  this  ?  Why  do  you  tritie  with  an  lionest  man 
like  Baptiste  ?    I  fear  it  is  wrong,  my  dear  child,  really  wrong." 

"  Wrong  !  "  indignantly  muttered  Marie. 

Fanny  stood  leaning  against  a  rosewood  commode,  her 
hands  still  in  her  pockets,  her  eyes  downcast,  her  whole  aspect 
expressing  wilfulness  and  caprice.  With  some  emotion  Bap- 
tiste  spoke. 

"  Fanny,  I  did  not  come  here  to  torment  you.  I  merely 
want  a  plain  answer  from  you.  Tell  me  once  for  all,  '  Bap- 
tiste,  I  dislike  you,'  and  I  shall  trouble  you  no  more." 

Fanny  smiled  prettily  without  looking  up,  and  did  not  seem 
in  the  least  inclined  to  pronounce  this  harsh  sentence.  It  was 
Charlotte  who  spoke  for  her. 

"  Dislike  him,"  she  said  with  a  sneer,  "  things  had  come  to 
a  pretty  pass  when  a  man  expected  to  be  disliked  by  a  pretty 
girl." 

"But  I  do  not  dislike  you  at  all,  Baptiste,"  mildly  said 
Fanny. 

"  Well,  then,  Fanny,  have  me,"  he  urged  ;  "  once  for  all, 
say  yes.  Madame  approves  our  marriage,  your  god-mother 
Charlotte  agrees  to  it ;  I  am  well  off." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Fanny,  looking  amiable;  "you 
liave  two  hundred  francs  a  year,  a  shop,  a  back  parlour,  a  bed, 
a  table,  and  two  chairs  :  I  know  it  all  by  heart." 

Baptiste  gave  her  so  moody  a  look,  that  Marie  audibly  ut- 
tered the  word  '  v/retch  !  '  and  that  even  Madame  la  Roche 
observed  : 

"  Well,  but  you  must  have  patience,  you  know." 

"  Monsieur  does  not  condescend  to  have  patience."  said 
Charlotte ;  "  a  girl  must  throw  herself  into  his  arms.  I  never 
heard  anything  like  it, — it  is  abominable." 

"I  do  not  see  why  Fanny  should  marry  just  yet,"  said 
Madame  la  Roche,  with  a  touch  of  querulousness  ;  "  she  is  very 
young." 

"  I  am  not  against  marriage,"  observed  Charlotte  with  irri- 
tating mildness,  "  uo,  certainly  not ;  but  yet  I  know  that  if  I 
had  waitea,  say  five  years,  to  marry,  I  might  have  chosen  and 
fared  diiierently.  My  husband  was  a  good  sort  of  man,  but 
he  was  a  working-man,  and  five  years  later  I  might  have  had 
a  captain  ;  over  and  over  he  told  me  so." 

"  I  thought  he  had  a  wife,"  said  Marie. 


SEVEN   YEARS.  45 

"  Madar.ie  !  "  ejaculated  Charlotte  with  wrathful  majesty. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Madame  la  Roche,  without  heeding  them. 
Baptiste  still  looked  at  Fauny  with  steady  gloom.  She  smiled 
at  the  fire,  apparently  unconscious  of  his  look. 

"  Fanny,"  he  said,  "  a  plain  yes  or  no."  Fanny  bit  her  lip, 
coloured  to  her  very  hair,  and  looking  at  him  steadily,  she  said  : 

"  No." 

Baptiste  turned  extremely  pale ;  his  eye  grew  dull  and 
lustreless,  his  lip  quivered,  his  voice  was  scarcely  audible  as 
he  said  :  "  Thank  you,  Fanny,"  and,  without  remembering  the 
presence  of  Madame  la  Koche,  he  walked  out  of  the  room. 

"  Dear  me,  how  very  strange,"  said  Madame  la  Roche, 
looking  startled. 

"  Served  him  right,"  sturdily  said  Marie. 

"  Then  you  did  not  like  him  after  all,  Fanny  ?"  pursued 
the  lady. 

"  Like  him  !  "  almost  screamed  Marie,  "  who  could  like 
such  a  boor  ?  " 

Fan-ny  said  nothing :  she  looked  calm  and  unconcerned, 
but  rather  thoughtful. 

"  Still  I  am  afraid  you  have  trifled  with  him,  my  dear," 
eaid  Madame  la  Roche,  "  I  really  am." 

Marie  was  going  to  break  out,  but  Fanny  forestalled  her. 
Madame  la  Roche  was  trying  to  look  stern,  but  Fanny  looked 
archly  in  her  face,  and  Madame  la  Roche's  anger  melted  away 
in  a  half  smile.     At  once  Fanny  put  in  her  easy  justification. 

"  I  like  him,  Madame,  I  really  do  ;  but  not  enough  to 
marry  him,  and  go  and  live  with  him  in  that  little  hole  of  a 
shop,  with  the  back  parlour,  &c.  I  should  die  with  ennui 
there,  I  know  1  should,  or  run  away,  which  would  be  worse. 
Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  have  done  with  him  now,  than  marry 
him  and  repent  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Marie,  stoutly. 

"  That  child  has  a  deal  of  sen.se,"  said  Madame  la  Roche. 

"  Sense  !  "  cried  Marie,  "  she  is  made  up  of  sense." 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  clever  little  thing,"  said  Madame  la  Roche, 
and  tliey  both  looked  admiringly  at  Fanny,  who  seemed 
strangely  puzzled  at  all  this  praise.  Perhaps  Jt  did  not  strike 
her  that  sense  was  her  particular  quality  ;  she  did  not,  how- 
ever, attempt  to  dispute  the  fact,  but  implying  by  her  looks 
that  Madame  la  Roche  and  Marie  were  welcome  to  admire  her 
as  much  as  they  pleased,  she  took  her  usual  seat  by  the  fireside. 

Charlotte,  who  had  been  lingering  about  the  room,  now 
thought  proper  to  finish  Baptiste's  business  by  observing : 


46  SEVEN   YEAES. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that  young  man,  I  really  am  ;  though 
coarse  and  obtuse,  he  was  gooduatured,  and,  I  believe,  honest." 

"  Baptiste  is  not  coarse,"  said  Fanny,  looking  vexed. 

"  Big,  my  dear,  big,  decidedly  big,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  Big  !  "  echoed  Fanny  ;  but  unable  to  deny  the  impeach- 
ment, she  added  no  more,  and  turning  to  Madame  la  lloche, 
she  quietly  asked  what  she  was  to  read.  On  this  hint,  Char- 
lotte and  Marie  withdrew,  whilst  Madame  la  Roche  medita- 
tively replied  : 

"  Mariette  is  too  flimsy,  I  think  we  will  have  the  Three 
Masked  Ladies." 

Accordingly  in  a  clear  voice  Fanny  began  :  "  The  mid- 
night bell  was  tolling,  when  three  ladies,  masked  and  clothed 
in  black,  appeared  in  the  place  of  Notre  Dame." 

"  Fanny  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  la  lloche, — ^whose  placidity 
all  the  horrors  of  the  French  romantic  school  could  not  dis- 
turb,— "  Fanny,  it  was  a  good  offer!  It  is  almost  a  pity  you 
rejected  that  you':g  man." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  demurely  said  Fanny,  and  going  on  with 
the  Three  Masked  Ladies,  she  thought  :  "  and  suppose  I  should 
regret  it,  cannot  I  get  him  back  again  ?  "I  have  only  to  open 
the  window,  look  out,  and  let  him  see  me,  and  all  is  right." 

In  this  easy  frame  of  mind  Fanny  read  on  till  ten  struck. 
She  then  laid  down  her  book  and  Marie  appeared,  bearing  a 
small  tray  with  a  glass  and  decanter.  Madame  la  Roche  took 
her  frugal  supper  of  toast  and  hot  wine  and  water,  allowed 
Marie  and  Fanny  to  undress  her,  and  entering  the  downy  bed 
that  closed  around  her,  she  softly  said  from  behind  the  damask 
curtain  : 

"  Marie,  do  not  tease  Fanny  about  Baptiste;  I  know  he  is 
a  good  fellow ;  but  since  she  does  not  care  about  him,  we 
must  not  tease  her." 

And,  closing  her  eyes,  Madame  la  Roche  fell  fast  asleep, 
oblivious  of  Baptiste,  love,  Marie,  and  everything. 

"  Tease  Fanny  about  him  !  "  muttered  Marie,  "  very  likely, 
indeed !  " 

It  did  not  seem  probable,  but  the  spirit  of  contradiction 
is  strong,  and  it  had  sufficient  power  over  Marie  to  make  her 
scold  Fanny  not  exactly  in  favour  of  Baptiste,  but  about  him. 
Charlotte,  who  was  present,  mildly  defended  her  god'daughter, 
and  her  mildness  having,  as  usual,  the  effect  of  oil  on  Marie's 
fiery  temper,  a  dire  quarrel  was  the  result.  Fanny  heard  them 
botli  with  evident  impatience,  and  put  an  end  to  the  argument 
by  saying  saucily : 


SEVEN    YEARS.  47 

"  I  did  not  have  Baptiste  because  I  did  not  like  bini,  and 
I  do  not  know  why  I  did  not  like  him;  but  if  I  did  like  him, 
I  would  have  him  to-morrow." 

And,  tired  of  hearing  about  Baptiste,  she  went  to  her 
room.  It  was  close  to  Madame  la  Roche's.  Like  that  lady's 
apartment,  it  looked  out  on  the  street.  The  shop  of  Baptiste 
was  exactly  opposite.  From  that  shop  there  came  a  sti-eak  of 
light,  which  Fanny  watched  on  the  window  curtains.  She 
lay  awake,  though  in  bed.  Madame  la  Roche  was  sleeping 
calmly  in  the  room  on  her  right ;  Marie  and  Charlotte  were 
quairelliiig — but  no  longer  about  Baptiste — in  another  room 
on  her  left;  but  she  could  not  sleep  like  one,  nor  forget  like 
the  others.  Perhaps  her  conscience  pricked  her;  perhaps 
the  pity  of  the  young  is  stronger  than  the  sympathy  or  than 
the  anger  of  age. 

"  What  can  he  be  doing  ?  "  she  thought,  and  she  got  up  to 
see.  The  street  was  silent ;  eleven  was  striking ;  she  drew 
back  the  curtains  and  looked. 

Baptiste  was  hard  at  work  ;  he  was  finishing  a  chair  for 
Madame  La  Roche — a  cliair  which  Fanny  had  worked, — the 
last  of  the  memorable  set  begun  two  years  before,  but  the 
nature  of  his  task  did  not  mollify  her  displeasure  at  the  tact 
that,  after  parting  from  her,  Baptiste  could  work.  She  gave 
the  dark  and  dingy  little  shop  a  scornful  look ;  live  there, 
indeed  !  her  eye  fell  with  disdain  on  the  sturdy  figure  of  the 
young  Fleming,  nailing  and  hammering  by  the  light  of  a 
wretclied  tallow  caudle. 

''  Much  trouble  there  is  on  his  mind  !  "  thought  Fanny, 
vexed  at  her  needless  pity ;  "  see  how  he  works  to  earn  a  few 
francs;  that  man  loves  nothing  but  money," — and  dropping 
the  curtain,  she  wont  back  to  bed,  and  soon  slept  soundly. 

For  Fanny  had  grown  pretty,  and  with  her  beauty  she  had 
acquired  admirers,  a  circumstance  to  which  no  pretty  girl  is 
indiffei-ent,  and  which  had  thrown  Baptist'^'s  love  considerably 
in  the  shade. 

"  I  like  him  ;  I  really  do,"  she  often  thoijght ;  "  but  then, 
why  should  I  marry  so  soon  ?  "  which  prudent  reflection,  the 
aversion  she  felt  to  exchange  a  pleasant  home  for  tlie  gloomy 
little  back  parlour  and  a  business  life,  very  much  strengtiiened. 
And  thus  little  by  little  her  love  had  grown  weak,  and  she 
could  bear  to  part  from  Baptiste  with  little  emotion,  and  after 
parting  froui  him  she  could  sleep. 


4:8  SEVEN   -lEAKS. 


CHAPTER    X. 

Early  the  next  mornino;  there  came  a  ring;  at  Madame  la 
Roche's  door;  it  was  Fanny  who  opened.  Baptiste  stood  be- 
fore her  with  the  chair  on  his  head. 

"  Good  morning,  Mademoiselle  Fanny,"  he  said  civilly. 

"  Good  morning,"  she  replied  shortly,  for  she  thought  he 
must  have  worked  all  night,  avaricious  creature  ! 

"  I  have  brought  back  Madame  la  Roche's  chair." 

"  Put  it  here,"  said  Fanny,  showing  him  into  a  back  room. 

"  I  have  done  my  best  with  it,"  said  Baptiste,  giving  her  a 
doubtful  look  ;  "  I  think  she  will  like  it." 

''  I  dare  say  she  will." 

Baptiste  sighed  and  turned  away,  then  turned  back. 

"  Fanny,"  he  said,  "  I  may  have  spoken  harshly  last 
night;   I  am  sorry  for  it.      I  hope  you  bear  me  no  ill-will." 

"  Ill-will !  "  said  Fanny,  laughing,  "  ill-will !  what  for  ?  " 

Baptiste  hung  his  head,  and  said  slowly : 

"  For  no  particular  reason.  Fanny ;  but  since  you  bear  me 
no  ill-will,  I  suppose  we  are  at  peace." 

Fanny  yawned  a  little  behind  her  dimpled  hand  at  what 
she  considered  the  prosiness  of  her  former  lover,  and  shivered 
slightly,  for  the  doors  were  all  open,  and  the  wind  was  whist- 
ling in  ?harply,  but  she  tried  to  remain  thoroughly  good- 
humoured,  and  to  say  with  a  pleasant  patronizing  nod,  "  Yes, 
Monsieur  Baptiste,  we  are  at  peace." 

Baptiste  stroked  his  chin  and  smiled  ;  he  was  wondering 
perhaps  at  two  years  wasted,  at  the  blindness  and  folly  of  his 
own  heart,  but  he  made  no  comment. 

"  Good  morning,  Mademoiselle  Fanny,"  he  said,  civilly, 
and  he  slowly  walked  down  stairs. 

Fanny  went  to  work  as  usual  that  day,  and  came  back  at 
eight.  She  found  Marie  very  busy,  and  rather  out  of  temper. 
The  daughter  of  Madame  la  Roche,  Madame  Dupuis,  and  her 
child,  had  come,  "  and  settled  themselves  down,"  as  Ma,rie 
termed  it,  in  the  quiet  dwelling  of  their  relative. 

"  They  are  come  to  stay  ?  "  asked  Fanny. 
., "  Of  course  they  are;  Monsieur  Dupuis  is  going  out  of 
town,  and  must  needs  pack  his  wife  and  child  upon  us.  I 
wonder  at  the  man.  Just  hear  how  that  child  screams;  poor 
Madame  la  Roche's  head  must  be  splitting  by  this  ;  and  then 
it  is  '  Marie,  run  and  fetch  us  some  biscuits ;  Marie,  some 
milk;   Marie,  call  the   coal-heaver  to  take  away  the  naughty 


SEVEN    YEARS.  49 

child  ! '  I  wish  people  who  have  children  would  let  people 
who  have  none,  and  would  have  none,  be  quiet  once  for  all.  I 
think,  too,"  she  added,  giving  a  fiery  look  to  Charlotte,  who 
was  knitting  placidly  in  a  corner  of  the  kitchen,  "  I  think  it 
very  strange,  I  say,  that  those  who  nursed  the  mothers  give 
themselves  so  little  trouble  about  the  children,  but  leave  it 
all  to  others." 

Charlotte  stuck  one  of  her  knitting  needles  in  her  hair  and 
looked  meditative. 

"A  sweet  child  Was  Mademoiselle  Cecile,"  she  said,  "  and 
her  boy  is  just  like  her.     Her  very  portrait :  a  sweet  child." 

"  I  wish  you  had  the  sweet  child  to  yourself  then,"  hotly 
said  Marie,  "  for  I  have  enough  of  him.  A  little  wretch  I  call 
him." 

"  Bless  his  heart,"  said  Charlotte,  resuming  her  knitting. 

"  And  Baptiste,"  said  Fanny,  "  has  he  been  again  ?  " 

"  Baptiste  !  pray  what  should  bring  Baptiste  here  ? " 
sharply  answered  Marie. 

"  He  is  not  paid  for  his  chair." 

"  Child,  let  Madame  settle  that,  and  do  not  mind  Baptiste 
nor  his  chair  neither.  Surely  there  is  enough  trouble  on  our 
minds  without  him." 

"  But  Marie,  his  shop  is  shut,  and  Madame  Leroux  says  he 
is  gone." 

"  Gone  !  ay,  gone  to  the  barrier  to  drink." 

"  Baptiste  never  drinks,"  said  Fanny,  looking  vexed. 

"  Bear  me,  child,  do  not  fly  at  me ;  the  lad  will  turn  up 
again  and  come  for  his  money.  I  wish  that  were  all  we  had 
to  teaze  or  vex  us  just  now." 

Marie  could  think  but  of  her  own  troubles  and  wrongs  ;  and 
even  when  Fanny  succeeded  in  convincing  her  that  Baptiste 
was  really  gone,  all  Marie  answered  was  :  "  Well,  let  him  be 
gone  !  who  regrets  him  ?  ' 

"  No  one,"  shortly  said  Fanny  ;  and  there  the  matter  ended. 

Madame  Dupuis  was  as  quiet  a  little  lady  as  her  mother,  yet 
she  and  her  child  succeeded  in  upsetting  Madame  la  llocbe's 
peaceable  household.  Before  three  days  were  over,  the  man- 
servant and  the  cook  threatened  to  give  notice,  and  Marie  gave 
her  mistress  the  news,  with  a  sullen  satisfaction  that  spolic  of 
secret  wrongs  endured  with  ill-subdued  resentment. 

Madame  la  Roche  was  sitting  in  her  arm-chair  in  her  pleas- 
ant bed-room;  her  daughter  occupied  the  cluiir  wl)ich  was -for- 
merly Fanny's,  and  the  child  sat  on  the  carpet,  strewed  with  toys. 

"  Yes,  Madame,  go  they  will,"  said  Marie. 
8 


50  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

"  How  very  stranf2;e  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  la  Roche,  look- 
ing more  bewildered  than  dismayed.  "  What  can  ail  them, 
Cecile  ?  " 

Her  daughter,  thus  addressed,  looked  helpless,  as  if  too 
strong  an  eii'ort  had  been  required  from  her  sluggish  intelli- 
gence, but  compelled  herself  to  reply  : 

'•  I  really  cannot  tell,  maman.  They  must  be  very  unrea- 
sonable. Marie,  will  you  tell  the  cook  that  I  shall  want  some 
more  of  that  panade  for  Charles  ?  "  Marie  smiled  grimly. 
"  And  also  tell  her  to  stew  me  down  the  calf's  foot,  and  will  you 
tell  the  coachman  that  we  shaU  take  a  drive  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  The  horses  have  taken  cold,  Madame ;  and  really  the 
cook  cannot  attend  to  the  dinner  and  to  everything." 

Madame  Dupuis  seemed  astonished. 

"  Oh  !   then,  you  will  do  it,  Marie,"  she  placidly  suggested. 

"  Madame  forgets  that  I  have  all  Monsieur  Charles's  things 
to  iron,  and  that  Madame  Charlotte  will  do  nothing." 

"  Well,  then,  let  it  be  Fanny,"  put  in  Madame  la  Roche; 
"  Fanny  is  very  neat  and  handy." 

"  Fanny  is  very  ill  in  bed,"  said  Marie. 

"  Dear  me,  what  ails  her  ?  " 

"  Her  head  aches." 

"  Ah  !  I  have  such  bad  head  aches  ! "  sighed  Madame 
Dupuis. 

"  I  hope  she  will  be  well  this  evening,"  said  Madame  la 
Roche,  anxiously. 

"It  is  not  likely,"  drily  replied  Marie,  "she  has  been  un- 
well these  two  days,  and  is  only  getting  worse." 

'*  Two  days  !  and  you  never  told  mc,  Marie." 

"  Madame  never  asked  about  Fanny,''  replied  Marie,  look- 
ing deeply  injured,  "  and  of  course  it  was  not  my  place  to  in- 
trude Fanny  upon  Madame." 

Madame  la  Roche  looked  guilty  and  penitent. 

"  Dear  me,  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said,  "  but  where  is  she  ?  " 

''  Fanny  is  in  her  room,  Madame." 

"  And  I  never  heard  her  !  " 

"  Perhaps  Monsieur  Charles  made  too  much  noise,"  was 
the  pointed  reply. 

"I  must  go  and  see  her,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  with  a 
sigh ;  •'  Cecile,  cannot  that  child  be  induced  to  make  less 
noise  ?  " 

"  No,  maman,"  placidly  replied  her  daughter,  looking  at 
Charles,  who  was  flinging  his   toys  about  with  great  vigour, 


SEVEN    YEARS.  51 

"  no,  I  assure  you  Monsieur  Dupuis  and   I  have  often   tried, 
but  we  never  could  induce  birn  to  be  more  quiet." 

"  I'd  induce  him  !  "  muttered  Marie. 

Peaceable  Madame  La  Roche  submitted,  however,  without 
demur,  and  prudently  shunning  the  immediate  vicuiity  of  her 
grand-child,  she  left  the  apartment  and  entered  Fanny's  room. 

Fanny  was  up  and  dressed,  but  looking  so  ill  and  so  wretched, 
that  Madame  la  Roche  was  quite  shocked  at  the  change  iu  her 
appearance. 

She  sat  down  by  her,  took  her  hand,  which  was  burning, 
and  kindly  asked  what  ailed  her. 

"  Nothing,  Madame,"  was  the  low  reply,  listlessly  spoken 

"  You  seem  feverish,"  said  Madame  la  R,oche. 

"  My  head  aches  a  little ;  but  indeed  it  is  nothing." 

"  How  very  odd  that  you  should  look  so  ill  about  nothing,' 
simply  suggested  Madame  la  Roche. 

Fanny  turned  very  red,  then  pale,  then  she  said  : 

"  I  assure  you  Madame,  that  if  you  suppose  I  am  thinking 
of  Baptiste— "■ 

"  My  dear  child,  why  should  I  think  that  ?  " 

She  seemed  surprised  at  the  suggestion. 

Fanru  did  not  speak,  but  with  some  emotion  she  turned 
her  head  away  from  the  mild  astonished  look  of  the  elder  lady. 
This  simple  little  act,  however,  proved  fatal  to  her  composure, 
for,  to  avoid  a  glance  more  benevolent  than  penetrating,  she 
looked  through  the  window  into  the  street,  and  there  she  saw 
exactly  facing  her  the  closed  shop  of  Baptiste,  with  the  words 
To  Let  on  the  shutters. 

This  was  more  than  Fanny  could  bear.  She  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Dear  me !  "  said  Madame  la  Roche,  very  much  amazed. 

Fanny  cried  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break  ;  at 
length  she  ceased,  and,  looking  up,  she  said  : 

"  I  dare  say,  Madame,  you  thick  I  am  crying  for  Baptiste  ; 
but  that  is  not  it ;  yet  it  is  about  him  I  am  crying,  I  do  not 
deny  it.  Madame,  I  could  bear  to  think  that  I  have  lost  him 
by  my  own  folly,  bat  I  cannot  bear  to  remember  how  that 
same  folly  has  driven  an  honest  man  to  ruin  :  that  is  what 
cuts  me." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  again  said  Madame  la  Roche,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  say  on  such  short  warning ;  but  her  miud  gradually 
rallied  and  came  round  to  its  natural  point  ;  she  gave 
Fanny's  hand  a  kind  and  compassionate  squeeze,  and  said 
gently 


52  SEVEN   TEARS. 

"  My  dear  child,  do  not  exaggerate.  Baptiste  is  gone,  it 
is  true,  and  I  am  sorry  for  the  poor  fellow ;  but  since  you  did 
not  like  him,  what  was  to  be  done  ?  You  must  not  suppose, 
moreover,  that  he  will  go  to  ruin  for  having  left  his  shop.  I 
dare  say  it  was  not  a  thriving  business." 

"  But,  Madame,  do  you  not  know  that  he  has  enlisted," 
said  Fanny,  "  that  he  is  a  soldier ;  that  he  may  be  sent  to 
Algeria  and  killed  ?  " 

"  Enlisted  !  oh,  dear  no ;  depend  upon  it  you  are  mis- 
taken." 

"  Indeed,  Madame,  I  am  not ;  the  person  who  told  me  saw 
him  in  his  regimentals ;  and  his  regiment  is  gone  many  leagues 
away  by  this." 

Madame  la  Roche  looked  gently  sceptical,  and  Fanny  had 
to  talk  a  great  deal  before  her  protectress  was  finally  con- 
vinced. When  she  was  at  length  persuaded  that  Baptiste  was 
a  soldier,  and  was  really  gone,  she  said  gently  : 

"  Well,  it  is  a  pity ;  but  what  is  to  be  done  ?  you  did  not 
like  him." 

"  But  I  do  like  him,"  cried  Fanny,  fairly  provoked  at  sc 
much  blindness,  "  and  I  do  not  want  him  to  be  shot.  Oh  ! 
dear,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  have  forgotten  all  about  the  ways  of  girls  !  " 
ejaculated  Madame  la  Roche.  "  Well,  my  dear,  do  not  cry  so, 
only  tell  me  this  :  if  Baptiste  were  to  come  back  and  ask  you, 
would  you  marry  him  now  ?  " 

"  Marry  him  !  "  said  Fanny,  drying  her  eyes,  and  looking 
very  much  as  if  all  her  perversity  were  coming  back  with  the 
question,  "  but  since  he  is  far  away,  Madame  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  you  really  must  give  me  a  yes  or  a  no.  I  can 
do  nothing  without  that." 

There  was  a  great  struggle  between  love  and  pride,  but 
love  prevailed  ;  and  though  not  without  many  hesitating  sighs 
and  blushes,  Fanny  at  length  confessed  that  if  Baptiste  would 
but  forgive  her  and  come  back,  he  should  have  no  reason  to 
complain  of  her. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  do  not  fret.  I  shall  do  my  best,"  said 
Madame  la  Roche  rising,  and  leaving  Fanny  to  such  comfort 
as  these  words  suggested,  she  went  and  called  Marie  to  a  secret 
council. 

Marie  remained  mute  on  learning  that  Fanny  was  fretting 
for  Baptiste ;  but  though  she  looked  very  much  amazed,  she 
declared  that  she  knew  it  all  along. 


SEVEN   TEAES.  53 

"  I  knew  what  the  girl  was  frettiug  for,  Madame.  I  knew 
it  quite  well." 

"  Dear  me,  I  did  not,  Marie." 

"  Oh  !  no,  Madame  was  too  busy  with  Monsieur  Charles 
to  think  of  poor  little  Fanny  ;  poor  dear  !  " 

"  lleally,  Marie,  you  surprise  me.  If  you  knew  the  truth, 
why  did  you  not  come  and  tell  it  to  me  ?  If  I  had  known  the 
young  man  had  enlisted — " 

"  He  did  it  to  break  the  poor  child's  heart,"  wrathfully  in- 
terrupted Marie.  "  Rely  upon  it,  Madame,  that  was  his 
motive." 

"  The  young  man  has  been  hasty,"  mildly  said  Madame  la 
Roche,  "  still  his  own  feelings  suffered." 

"  Feelings  !  "  interrupted  Marie  again,  "  does  Madame 
believe  men  have  feelings  '/  " 

This  was  so  general  a  question,  and  it  involved  so  many 
delicate  matters  and  recollections,  that  Madame  la  Roche 
paused  ere  she  auswercd  with  a  sigh  : 

"  We  will  not  talk  about  that  now,  Marie ;  the  question  is 
to  get  this  young  man  back,  since  Fanny  wishes  for  him." 

"  So  I  think,"  said  Marie,  with  whom  Baptiste  was  neither 
more  nor  less  than  a  flesh  and  blood  toy,  which  had  hit  Fanny's 
fancy  ;  and  she  no  more  thought  of  finding  fault  with  the 
young  girl's  choice  than  the  tender  parent,  whose  darling 
choses  a  harlequin  doll,  quarrels  ^¥ith  the  pleasure  which  the 
hideous  thing  affords  the  beloved  child. 

"  But  it  may  not  be  easy  to  get  him  back,"  said  Madame 
la  RoGhe. 

Marie  groaned,  and  confessed  that  men  were  monsters  now 
and  then. 

"  But  we  will  do  our  best,"  pursued  the  gentle  lady,  "  only 
you  must  help  me.  Marie." 

Then  followed  a  long  and  close  conversation,  chiefly  re- 
lating to  the  best  means  to  be  adopted  for  securing  the  return 
of  the  fugitive,  and  in  which  so  many  plans  were  proposed  and 
rejected,  that,  by  the  time  it  was  over,  Madame  la  Roche  was 
fairly  exhausted. 

Marie  generously  took  pity  on  her  mistress,  and  remarked : 

"  Let  Madame  take  no  trouble  about  the  cook  or  coach- 
man,— I  will  make  them  stay,  whether  they  like  it  or  not.  I 
should  like  to  hear  them  grumble  about  Monsieur  Charles 
again  !  A  fine  spirited  little  fellow  !  And  as  to  Madame 
Charlotte,  who  hates  her  own  god-daughter,  I  know,  she  shall 
hear  a  piece  of  my  mind  before  the  day  is  out." 


54:  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

Upon  wlaich  Marie,  who  was  the  soul  and  spirit  of  the 
household,  rushed  to  the  kitchen,  settled  the  cook  and  the 
coachman  in  a  twinkling,  and  fought  a  dire  battle  with 
Charlotte, — if  that  can  be  called  a  battle  of  which  the  fighting 
was  all  on  one  side  :  the  enemy,  like  Wellington  at  Waterloo, 
conquering  by  dint  of  silent  stubbornness,  and,  what  was  even 
more  provoking,  taking  to  herself  the  merit  of  future  success, 
without  incurring  the  risks  of  failure. 

"Ay,  ay,"  she  calmly  said,  going  on  with  her  knitting,  and 
taking  advantage  of  such  acknowledgments  as  had  escaped 
Marie  durino-  the  heat  of  the  contest,  "  [  know  what  the  child 
wants." 

"  Well,  and  what  does  she  want  ?  "  asked  Marie. 

Charlotte's  reply  was  an  allusion  to  the  history  of  her 
father's  sister,  whose  lover  returned  after  fifteen  years. 

"  And  what  has  that  to  do  with  Fanny  ?  "  indignantly  asked 
Marie. 

A  supercilious  smile  was  Charlotte's  only  answer. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Promises  are  sweet ;  they  lead  on  the  wings  of  Hope  to 
the  happy  land  of  Desire,  that  favored  abode  of  youth.  The 
parting  words  of  Madame  la  Roche  had  buoyed  up  Fanny ;  all 
was  right,  or  would  be ;  Baptiste  would  come  back,  forgive, 
and  be  forgiven.  She  cared  for  no  more,  and  gave  no  thought 
to  the  future  beyond  these  fair  hopes. 

But  though  Madame  la  Roche  had  promised,  nothing  ap- 
peared to  come  of  her  word<.  Baptiste  neither  returned  nor 
wrote.  No  fond,  happy,  and  forgiving  lover  came  back  to  the 
light  and  imprudent  girl,  who  did  not  know  her  own  mind,  and 
had  trifled  with  her  own  heart.  Perhaps  it  could  not  end  so 
easily  :  strange  and  deep  must  have  been  the  despair  which  had 
led  the  calm  phlegmatic  Fleming  to  take  this  impassioned  step  : 
a  despair  not  easi'ly  soothed,  a  step  not  readily  revoked.  Bap- 
tiste loved  deeply ;  too  deeply,  no  doubt,  to  submit  to  lose 
Fanny,  and  yet  stay  near  her,  breathe  the  same  air,  and,  may 
be,  see  his  inconstant  mistress  favor  a  happy  rival  It  was 
easier  to  throw  up  business,  future  prospects,  and  all  for  which 
he  had  hitherto  lived,  than  to  remain  and  behold  that  dreary 
result.  Better  become  a  soldier,  be  sent  off  to  Algeria,  and 
eliot  by  some  Arab,  and  have  an  end  of  it  all,  than  linger  and 
suffer  from  a  pain  which,  though  it  may  pass  away  with  time,  is 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  55 

intolerable  whilst  it  lasts.  And  perhaps  because  he  had  suf- 
fered so  much,  Baptiste  did  not  come  back.  Fanny  said 
nothing,  but  the  roses  forsook  her  cheek,  the  light  fled  from 
her  eyes.  She  did  not  complain ;  she  even  said  she  felt  re- 
markably well,  and  she  looked  wretchedly  ill.  Madame  la  Roche 
was  concerned ;  Marie  was  cross  ;  and  Charlotte,  whom  a  fit  of 
rhouraatisra  kept  to  her  bed,  was  gently  peevish, — love  and 
lovers  were  all  nonsense.  There  was  but  one  real  thing  in  life, 
and  that  was  rheumatism;  Fanny  heard  her,  and  did  not  argue 
the  point,  she  felt  too  sad  and  too  weary. 

Everything  else  went  on  as  usual  in  the  little  houseliold, 
that  is  to  say,  everything  continued  to  be  upset  by  Madame 
Dupuis  and  her  child ;  even  the  placid  mother  of  the  former 
leeuied  heartily  wearied  of  this  long,  tiresome  visit,  and  was 
leard  to  observe  once  or  twice  :  "  How  very  long  Monsieur 
Dupuis  is  staying." 

At  the  end  of  a  week  the  cloud  which  had  been  hanging 
over  tlie  family  became  a  settled  gloom.  Marie,  with  eyes  and 
face  on  fire,  took  Fanny  aside  one  evening  to  say  to  her  vehe- 
mently : 

"  Fanny,  never  think  of  that  wretch  again  ;  mind  my  words, 
never  think  of  him." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Fanny,  with  tolerable  calmness. 

The  same  evening  Madame  la  Roche  likewise  spoke  to  the 
young  girl ;  her  language  was  more  gentle,  but  the  meaning 
was  the  same. 

"  My  dear  child,"  she  said  mildly,  "  I  have  done  my  best, 
and  I  have  failed  ;   try  and  forget  Baptiste." 

"  Yes,  Madame,"  said  Fanny,  with  apathetic  calmness. 

Charlotte,  too,  thought  proper  to  impart  the  information 
to  her  o;od-dauo;hter,  and  to  add  to  it  a  dose  of  comfort  and 
advice,  judiciously  mingled. 

"  Child,"  she  said  to  Fanny,  who  was  sitting  with  her, 
"  you  will  live  to  know  that  love  is  a  folly.  Have  I  not  been 
married,  and  do  I  not  know  all  about  it?  Forget  that  big 
Fleming,  my  love ;  forget  him,  and  depend  upon  it  you  will 
sleep  sound  at  night,  eat  well  in  the  day,  and  come  round. 
Bless  you,  you  will  marry  some  other  man  some  day.  Yes, 
my  love,  and  have  a  dozen  of  children,  I  dare  say.  I  had  a 
friend  once,  whose  name  was  Jeanne,  and  who  was  desperately 
in  love  three  times,  and  ended  by  marrying  a  man  she  did  not 
care  a  pin  about,  and  who  made  her  as  happy  as  the  day  waa 
long." 

What  could  Fanny  answer  to  this,  especially  when  Char- 


56  SEVEN   YEAES. 

lotte  concluded  by  declaring  to  her  that  life  held  but  one  real 
trouble,  and  that  its  name  was  rheumatism  ! 

Fanny  did  not  conti'adict ;  she  did  not  answer  ;  but  she 
thought  of  Baptiste  from  morning  till  night,  and  from  night 
till  morning. 

Fanny  was  melancholy  ;  Marie  was  kept  in  a  state  of  per- 
manent indignation  by  the  exacting  ways  of  Madame  Dupuis 
and  her  boy ;  Charlotte  was  cross,  and  could  not  be  spoken  to; 
and  all  this  sadness,  wrath,  and  ill-temper  acted  on  easy 
Madame  la  Koehe.  She  could  not  refrain  from  some  secret 
murmurs.  "  It  was  love,  tiresome  love,  that  had  done  it  all. 
Until  love  came  they  were  happy.  Fanny  was  merry ;  there 
was  even  something  pleasant  about  the  quarrels  of  Charlotte 
and  Marie  :  but  now  all  was  wrong,  all  was  upset."  Madame 
la  Roche  could  not  indulge  in  such  thoughts  without  looking 
disturbed  and  unhappy;  and  Madame  Dupuis,  at  length  be- 
coming aware  of  the  fact,  observed  one  evening,  as  she  sat  with 
her  mother  : 

"  Maman,  is  anything  the  matter  1 " 

"Nothing,  my  dear.  Fanny,  go  and  fetch  me  the  second 
volume  of  Racine  from  the  library,  if  you  please." 

Fanny,  who  sat  with  the  two  ladies  embroidering  at  a  frame 
a  little  apart,  rose  and  obeyed. 

The  library  was  an  old-fashioned  piece  of  furniture,  filled 
with  many  old-fashioned  books.  It  stood  in  the  dining-room, 
which  it  half  filled,  and  was  rarely  opened.  Fanny  put  down 
on  a  table  the  light  she  had  brought  with  her ;  and  instead 
of  looking  for  the  second  volume  of  Racine,  she  sat  down  in 
the  nearest  of  the  old-fashioned  arm-chairs  around  her,  and 
yielded  for  a  while  to  the  luxury  of  solitary  despondency. 
Baptiste  had  been  gone  three  weeks ;  it  was  a  week  since 
Marie  and  Madame  la  Roche  had  bid  her  cease  to  hope.  Oh  ! 
what  a  long  dreary  week  she  had  spent ;  sewing  all  day, — 
coming  home  at  night  to  sit  in  that  dull  weary  room,  where  the 
two  ladies  spoke  in  subdued  murmurs,  by  the  fireside,  and 
where  the  boy  stamped  and  shouted,  whilst  her  needle  for  ever 
went  in  and  out  the  canvass  on  which  she  was  working  the  first 
of  a  new  set  of  chairs  for  Madame  la  Roche.  "And  is  it 
possible!"  thought  Fanny,  groaning,  "that  I  am  to  live  for 
ever  so  1  How  ditierent  a  life  I  might  have  had  with  him  !  I 
disliked  the  shop  and  the  back  room ;  they  were  better  any  day 
than  this  dull  stupid  life  I  lead  here,  fretting  myself  to  death 
for  what  cannot  be,  and  for  what  is." 

And  by  "  what  is  "  Fanny  did  not  understand  merely  her 


SEVEN   YEARS.  57 

own  troubles — she  had  distracting  visions  of  a  dusty  and  way- 
worn soldier,  of  a  wounded  man,  of  death-beds  in  tented  camps, 
of  war  and  all  its  horrors.  Her  heart  swelled,  her  tears  flowed, 
and  leaning  her  head  on  the  table  near  which  she  sat,  she  cried 
long  and  bitterly. 

"  Fanny  !  "  said  a  voice  behind  her. 

Fanny  looked  uji  with  a  cry. 

Baptiste,  pale,  haggard,  and  worn,  but  Baptiste  in  flesh  and 
blood,  stood  behind  her. 

Of  what  avail  are  resolves  in  life  ?  Fanny  had  thought 
that  if  she  saw  Baptiste  again  she  would  meet  him  with  peni- 
tent sorrow  ;  Baptiste  had  firmly  resolved  that  before  he  for- 
gave his  sinning  mistress,  he  would  make  her  agree  to  a  regu- 
lar series  of  conditions  ;  and  when  they  met,  Fanny  could  only 
laugh  and  cry  fur  joy,  and  throw  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
like  a  happy  child  ;  and  Baptiste  could  only  take  her  in  his 
arms  and  hold  her  fast  like  a  treasure  lost,  long  sought  for, 
and  found  at  last.  It  was  Fanny,  moreover,  who  made  all  the 
conditions. 

"  You  must  never  go  away  again,"  she  cried. 

"  Never !  "  said  Baptiste,  who  was  too  happy  to  do  more 
than  echo  her  words  and  look  at  her  ;  and  who,  moreover,  for- 
got that  this  submission  was  by  no  means  what  he  had  in- 
tended. 

"  And  you  must  never  be  so  foolish  as  to  think  I  do  not 
like  you." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Baptiste,  meek  as  a  lamb ;  and  who 
would  have  gone  on  promising  till  morning,  if  Fanny  had  not 
suddenly  asked : 

"  And  how  and  why  did  you  come  back,  sir  ?  " 

The  countenance  and  manner  of  Baptiste  underwent  a  com- 
plete change. 

"  Madame  la  Roche  wrote  to  me,"  he  replied  ;  "  she  wanted 
to  buy  me  out,  but  though  people  say  I  am  fond  of  money,  it 
is  not  the  money  of  others  1  am  fond  of,  so  I  thanked  her  and 
declined.  Still  1  could  not  help  thinking  of  you  ;  so  at  last  I 
made  up  my  mind,  I  bought  myself  out,  and  came  back." 

Fanny  reddened  and  bit  her  lip. 

"  I  suppose  Madame  la  Roche  wrote  to  say  I  was  breaking 
my  heart  about  you, — I  wonder  you  believed  her." 

Baptiste  put  Fanny  away ;  he  was  pale  but  cool,  his  brow 
was  calm  but  resolute,  and  his  look  was  settled  and  ahuost 
cold.  "  Fanny,"  he  said,  "  we  will  say  little,  but  it  shall  be  td 
the  purpose.     When  will  you  marry  me  ? " 


68  SEVEN   YEAES. 

The  dawning  rebellion  of  Fanny  fled  as  by  magic. 

"  When  you  please,"  she  said,  trying  to  smile  ;  "  you  have 
travelled  from  a  sufficient  distance  to  have  your  way." 

If  Baptiste  had  followed  his  own  will  he  would  have  said, 
"  Let  it  be  in  a  week,"  but  generosity  prevailed  over  passion, 
and  he  merely  said : 

"  Then,  Fanny,  let  it  be  this  day  month."  - 

"  Very  well,"  sa-d  Fanny  ;  "  if  my  god-mother,  Marie,  and 
Madame  la  Roche  agree  to  it,  this  day  month  let  it  be." 

"  I  have  your  word,"  impressively  said  Baptiste. 

"  My  word  of  honour,"  said  Fanny,  laying  her  left  hand 
on  her  heart,  and  giving  him  her  right  hand  with  a  grand  air. 

"  Mind,  Fanny,  this  day  month,"  repeated  Baptiste,  se- 
cretly uneasy  at  the  delay,  though  of  his  own  fixing. 

Fanny  laughed  gaily. 

"  Do  not  be  tiresome,"  she  said,  "  you  will  often  wish  it 
undone  before  the  year  is  out." 

"  The  year  will  be  out  in  six  weeks,  Fanny." 

"  Oh !  if  you  begin  finding  out  all  the  stupid  things  I 
say,"  began  Fanny  hotly,  "  we  shall  never  have  done,"  she 
would  have  added,  but  had  not  time. 

Madame  la  Roche,  surprised  at  the  non-appearance  of 
Fanny  with  the  second  volume  of  Racine,  and  thinking  that 
the  young  girl  must  have  fainted  away  alone,  and  be  lying  in 
a  swoon  in  one  of  the  arm-chairs,  had  kindly  come  out  herself 
to  see  what  the  matter  was.  A  sound  of  voices  which  she 
heard  before  opening  the  door  changed  the  current  of  her 
thoughts  from  a  fainting  fit  to  an  invasion  of  thieves  ;  and 
Baptiste  was  so  altered,  and  his  presence  was  so  unexpected, 
that  if  she  had  not  seen  the  smile  on  Fanny's  lips,  Madame  la 
Roche  might  have  persisted  in  the  latter  belief. 

"  It  is  I,  Baptiste  Watt,  Madame,"  said  the  young  man, 
perceiving  he  was  not  recognised  ;  "  I  am  come  back  and  Fanny 
has  promised  to  marry  me  this  day  month." 

"  To-day  is  Friday,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  nervously, 
"  not  this  day  month,  Baptiste,  to-morrow  month." 

"  As  Madame  pleases,"  replied  Baptiste,  looking  red  and 
annoyed. 

"  But  how  very  odd  that  you  are  come  back  !  "  exclaimed 
Madame  la  Roche  with  retrospective  wonder  ;  "  you  wrote  that 
you  would  not." 

"  I  beg  Madame's  pardon,  I  only  wrote  that  I  did  not  wish 
to  be  bought  out  by  Madame,  but  I  bought  myself  out,  and 
here  1  am." 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  59 

"You  are  very  independent,"  said  Madame  la  Eoche,  a 
little  testily.  "  Well,  well,  Fanny  shall  have  the  fifteen  hun- 
dred francs  I  promised  on  her  wedding  day." 

"  Fifteen  hundred  francs  is  a  nice  sura,"  said  Baptiste, 
looking  pleased,  "and  I  do  not  deny  that  I  would  rather  have 
it  with  Fanny  than  not,  though  it  will  not  make  me  a  bit 
fonder  of  her." 

He  lot)ked  so  fondly  at  the  young  girl  as  he  spoke,  that 
Madame  la  Roche  felt  convinced  Fanny  would  be  a  happy  wo- 
man. She  felt  moved,  and  very  much  inclined  to  shed  a  few 
tears,  when  the  propriety  of  making  him  appear  before  Char- 
lotte suddenly  occurred  to  her. 

"  You  must  speak  to  Charh)tte,"  she  said  gravely  ;  "Char- 
lotte is  the  child's  god-mother,  and  we  can  settle  nothing  with- 
out her." 

Fanny  smiled  archly  at  her  lover  in  a  way  that  said  plainly: 
"You  know  ')etter  than  that,  do  you  not?"  but  slipping  her 
arm  within  his,  she  led  him  at  once  to  the  presence  ot  her  god- 
mother. 

Marie  was  sitting  with  Charlotte,  whom  rheumatism  still 
kept  captive,  for  somehow  or  other  the  two  enemies  were  not 
happy  apart,  and  Marie  held  it  her  duty  to  rouse  Charlotte,  to 
stir  her  up  by  gentle  discourse.  The  soothing  down  of  in- 
valids she  held  an  egregious  mistake.  "  Sickly  people  are  al- 
ready low,"  thought  and  said  Marie,  "  it  is  rousing  they  want. 
Therefore  rouse  them  up."  Acting  on  this  judicious  and  be- 
nevolent principle,  she  gave  her  spare  time  to  Charlotte,  with 
whom  she  sat  several  hours  daily,  anxiously  exerting  herself 
to  rouse  her.  It  happened  indeed  that  Charlotte  roused  Marie 
as  often  as  Marie  roused  her  ;  but  this  reversion  of  their  natural 
positions  Marie  kindly  disregarded,  and  persevered  in  her  en- 
deavours. 

The  two  friends  were  engaged  as  usual,  when  Madame  la 
Roche  opened  the  door  of  Charlotte's  room,  and  ushered  in 
Baptiste  and  Fanny.  Charlotte  showed  no  great  signs  of 
wonder ;  she  was  not  in  the  habit  of  betraying  her  emotions, 
but  Mai'ie,  who  was  more  unsophisticated,  stared  at  Baptiste 
in  mingled  surprise  and  wrath. 

'*  Well,  sir,"  she  began. 

"  Marie,  you  must  not  scold,"  interrupted  her  mistress ; 
"  the  young  man  is  a  very  good  young  man,  though  a  little 
flighty" — Fanny  looked  demurely  at  her  betrothed,  who  seemed 
surprised  at  this  definition  of  himself — "and  rather  too  disin- 
terested for  this  present  state  of  society." 


60  SEVEN   YEARS. 

"  Humpli !  "  grumbled  Maria,  wlio  had  always  held  Baptiste 
close  and  rather  avaricious. 

"  I  know  what  I  am  saying,"  testily  resumed  Madame  la 
Roche ;  "  hut,  as  I  said,  he  is  a  good  young  man,  and  Fanny 
likes  him,  and  they  are  to  be  married  to-morrow  month,  and 
they  are  come  to  get  the  consent  of  their  friend  and  god- 
mother, Charlotte." 

Charlotte,  who  sat  in  an  arm-chair,  whence  indeed  she  could 
not  move,  nodded  and  smiled  blandly. 

"  I  knew,"  she  said,  "  that  my  eflforts  for  the  happiness  of 
these  young  people  could  not  long  remain  unavailing ;  but  I 
expected  Baptiste  sooner." 

"  Sooner,"  sneered  Marie,  "  sooner !  why  how  then  could 
Monsieur  make  our  poor  child  fret  herself  pale  and  ill  for  his 
sake  if  he  came  back  ?  No,  no,  he  must  stay  away  of  cpurse, 
and  Fanny  must  wait  his  leisure." 

"  There,  sir,"  said  Fanny,  "  you  hear  how  badly  you  have 
behaved,  I  hope  you  will  show  yourself  penitent." 

"  He  show  himself  penitent !  "  screamed  Marie. 

"No,  no,  you  really  must  not  scold,"  said  Madame  la 
Roche.  "  I  am  an  infallible  judge  of  character,  and  I  know 
that  Baptiste  will  make  an  excellent  husband." 

Marie  gave  her  mistress  a  look  of  infinite  compassion,  for 
she  was  accustomed  to  keep  Madame  la  Roche  in  a  state  of 
mental  suljjection,  and  could  not  see  without  pity  so  futile  an 
attempt  at  liberty,  but  not  deigning  to  discuss  the  point,  and 
pleased  at  the  happy  face  of  Fanny,  she  said  with  some  lof- 
tiness : 

"  Since  the  young  man  has  shown  a  proper  sense  of  his 
errors,  he  is  welcome  to  my  forgiveness." 

Baptiste  reddened,  and  was  going  to  object  to  be  forgiven, 
but  the  fingers  of  Fanny  were  laid  on  his  lips,  and  his  mouth 
was  effectually  stopped. 

"  I  give  my  consent  to  his  marriage  Avith  Fanny,"  re- 
Bumecl  Marie  with  great  majesty,  "  and  I  allow  him  to  embrace 
me." 

This  permission  Baptiste  received  with  a  suspicious  look, 
as  if  he  thought  it  part  of  the  forgiveness,  and  Fanny  had  to 
frown  and  shake  her  head,  and  even  to  give  a  sly  push  behind, 
before  the  obstinate  young  giant  would  move  a  step  toward  the 
stately  Marie.  She  beheld  his  hesitation  with  a  benevolent 
Bmile,  and  as  sovereigns  see  the  awe  and  embarrassment  their 
presence  creates.  Still  smiling,  she  held  up  one  cheek,  then 
the  other,  and  when  the  salute  was  over,  she  said  blandly  : 


SEVEN   YEARS.  61 

"  As  to  the  wedding ;  do  you  not  think,  Baptiste,  it  will 
do  very  well  this  day  three  months  V 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  six  months,"  said  Charlotte,  quietly. 
"  I  hope  my  god-daughter  is  not  going  to  be  so  indecorous  as 
to  marry  oft"  in  a  hurry." 

Bantiste  did  not  answer ;  but  he  looked  so  sullen  and  so 
ulack,  that  Fanny,  half  frightened,  slipped  her  arm  within  his, 
and  gave  him  an  appealing  look,  which  cleared  his  face  at  once, 
and  made  hiin  half  smile. 

"  Thank  you,  Marie,  thank  you,  Charlotte,"  he  said  phleg- 
matically,  "  but  Fanny  and  I  think  a  month  long  enough  to 
wait." 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Madame  la  Roche.  "  No,  Marie, 
no,  Charlotte,  you  really  must  not  oppose  the  poor  children. 
Any  one  can  see  they  will  have  no  peace  of  mind  till  they  are 
married." 

A  remark  which,  though  innocently  uttered,  yet  verged  so 
much  on  indecorum,  called  for  due  reproof  Marie  thought  fit 
to  take  this  task  on  herself,  and  set  her  3imple  mistress  to 
rights.  Ignoring,  therefore,  the  imprudent  words  Madame  la 
Eoche  had  uttered,  Marie  said  lofti]  f  . 

"  In  the  meanwhile.  Monsieur  Watt,  I  shall  suggest  your 
seeing  Fanny  as  little  as  possible.  Decorum  you  know,  Bap- 
tiste, decorum." 

"  Aye  to  be  sure,  decorum,"  put  in  Madame  la  Roche,  who 
felt  she  had  gone  too  far ;  "  Fanny  has  not  been  reared  like  a 
common  girl.  Monsieur  Watt.  She  is  an  orphan,  and  has  been 
under  my  special  care  ever  since  she  was  three  years  old  ;  and 
you  see,  Daptiste,  it  is  precisely  because  you  are  to  marry  her 
that  you  ought  to  see  her  as  little  as  possible." 

Baptiste  looked  confounded,  and  Fanny  mischievously 
demurred. 

"  And  I  even  suggest,"  put  in  Charlotte,  "  that  Baptiste 
should  go  to  some  little  distance  and  keep  out  of  the  way." 

"  That,"  said  Baptiste,  coolly,  "  is  impossible.  I  must 
prepare  a  home  for  Fanny ;  but  since  you  object  to  my  seeing 
her,  why  I  will  not  do  so  without  your  consent." 

He  bowed  to  Madame  la  Roche  and  to  Charlotte  and  Marie, 
and,  taking  Fanny's  hand,  he  simply  said  : 

"  Good  bye,  1  anny ;  we  shall  soon  meet."  He  dropped 
ner  hand  and  turned  away,  leaving  them  all  rather  surprised 
at  the  quiet  dignity  of  his  manner.  Fanny  stood  awhile  irres- 
olute, then  darted  after  him,  and  reached  tte  door  as  he  was 
Dpening  it. 


62 


SEVEN   YEARS. 


"  You  tiresome  man,"  she  said  petulantly  ;  "  why  do  you 
mind  them?  do  you  not  know  that  it  shall  be  as  I  like,  and 
not  as  they  like  ;  and  do  you  suppose  I  am  not  going  to  sec 
you  for  a  month  '?  " 

But  Baptiste  shook  his  head,  and  sturdily  resisted  the 
temptation. 

"  One  word,  one  man,"  he  said  bravely,  "  I  shall  see  you 
when  they  like,  Fanny."  And,  not  trusting  himself  with  a 
look,  he  slowly  and  heavily  walked  down-stairs. 

"  He  is  very  stupid !  "  thought  Fanny.  '•  When  they  like, 
and  is  not  that  when  I  like.  Monsieur  Baptiste '?  " 

"  A  very  remarkable  young  man,"  said  Madame  la  Eoche, 
to  Marie,  "  and  a  very  strong  will." 

"  Trust  Fanny  for  twisting  him  round  her  little  finger," 
knowingly  said  Marie. 

Fanny,  who  had  returned,  stood  behind  them :  she  over- 
heard Marie's  words,  and  smiled  wistfully  at  the  future.  She 
did  not  seem  to  see  Madame  la  Roche,  or  to  think  of  going 
back  to  her  work  in  that  lady's  room.  She  stood  like  one  in 
a  dream,  and  Madame  la  Roche  with  her  usual  good  nature 
kindly  smiled,  and  saying,  "  I  shall  not  want  you  any  more 
this  evening,  child,"  she  returned  to  the  cheerful  apartment 
where  she  had  left  her  daughter. 

"  Was  the  book  lost?"  asked  Madame  Dupuis. 
"  Ah !  Cecile,  this  is  a  strange  world,  and  I  cannot  think 
what  possesses  men   and  women,  to  make  it  stranger.     But 
they  will  love  and  be   wretched,   and  marry  too, — it   is  sur 
prising." 

"  Amazing !  "  said  Madame  Dupuis,  "  especially  when 
people  are  poor." 

"  Fanny  is  not  exactly  poor,"  began  Madame  la  Roche. 
"Dear   me,"   interrupted    Madame    Dupuis,    opening    her 
languid    eyes,    "  is    little    Fanny    in    love ;    is   she  going  to 
marry  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  she  actually  is,  and  she  is  going  to  leave 
me,  too."  And  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart  Madame  la  Roche 
related  to  her  daughter  Fanny's  history. 

Madame  Dupuis  heard  it  with  little  interest.  She  was 
not  unkind,  she  was  very  cold  ;  her  heart  was  heavy  and  dull, 
and  she  never  thoroughly  apprehended  the  troubles  or  con- 
cerns of  others.  She  thought  it  strange  that  Fanny  should  be 
in  love,  and  want  to  marry. 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  married,"  objected  her  mother. 


SEVEN"    YEARS.  63 

Madame  Diipuis  looked  as  if  she  thought  that  quite  anoth- 
er sort  of  thing-. 

"  And  I  married,"  pursued  her  mother,  "  so  I  suppose  it  is 
the  general  lot." 

But  still  31adame  Diipuis  thought  it  singular  that  Fanny 
should  leave  an  agi-eeable  and  comfortable  house  like  her 
mothei's  for  such  a  home  as  a  working-man  could  offer. 

"  Perhapo  there  is  no  home  like  one's  own  home  after  Jtll," 
sighed  Madame  la  Eoche.  "  But  I  shall  miss  my  little 
Fanny,  ay,  and  sorely  too." 

Madame  Diipuis  said  nothing,  hut  she  stared  at  her  moth- 
er, whose  eyes  were  dim,  and  she  seemed  to  think  this  the 
strangest  of  all. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Partly  through  pique,  partly  through  pride,  Fanny  took 
no  steps,  that  is  to  say,  expressed  no  wish,  to  see  Baptiste  until 
the  month  was  nearly  out.  He  kept  strictly  to  his  word,  and 
chose  the  middle  of  the  day,  when  she  was  not  within,  to  call 
on  Charlotte  and  Marie,  and  settle  with  them  matters  relative 
to  the  approaching  event.  Thus  he  reopened  his  shop,  set  up 
once  more  his  little  stock,  resumed  his  business,  and  prepared 
that  dingy  home  for  the  presence  of  his  bright  and  gay  be- 
trothed. Fanny,  whom  he  had  deferentially  consulted  through 
the  medium  of  her  god-mother,  replied  by  the  same  means, 
that  he  was  to  act  as  he  pleased,  and  that  she,  Fanny,  would 
be  satisfied  with  whatever  he  did. 

"  I  shall  do  my  best,"  replied  Baptiste ;  "  a  man  can  do 
no  more." 

They  thus  reached,  without  meeting,  the  Thursday  that 
preceded  the  Saturday  on  which  they  were  to  be  married.  To 
the  great  surprise  of  Marie,  Fanny  said  to  her  in  the  morning : 

"Marie,  god-mother  is  too  ill  to  accompany  me,  so  you  and 
I  must  go  and  spend  this  evening  with  Baptiste.  Will  you 
tell  him  so,  if  you  please?  " 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Marie,  solemnly,  "  you  mean,  I  sup- 
pose, that  we  must  ask  Baptiste  to  come  here.  It  would  be 
better  not  to  meet  him  till  Saturday  morning,  but  since  you 
wish  it,  let  it  be." 

"  No,  Marie,  not  here.  I  wish  to  see  him  and  the  place 
too ;  so  please  to  tell  him  so." 

Marie  demurred,  spoke  of  propriety  and  the  world,  and 


64  SEVEN     YEAKS. 

delivered  an   excellent   homily  on   decorum  ;  but  Fanny  waa 
obstinate. 

"  There  is  no  impropriety  in  my  going  with  you,"  she  said  ; 
"and  as  we  have  only  the  street  to  cross,  it  is  very  hard  if  we 
cannot  do  so  without  the  world  being  apprised  of  it ;  besides, 
we  shall  only  stay  an  hour  or  so  ;  and,  I  tell  you,  I  must  see 
Baptiste,  speak  to  him,  and  look  at  the  house  I  am  to  live  in." 

"  Marie  offered  no  further  resistance  ;  she  knew  of  old  that 
when  Fanny  was  determined  on  anything  it  must  come  to  pass, 
aud  that  to  submit  with  a  good  grace  to  the  will  of  this  little 
despot  was  her  best  policy.  Baptiste,  accorc'ingly,  was  warned 
of  the  lionour  he  was  to  receive ;  he  showed  no  extraordinary 
degree  of  elation,  but  enough  of  htmest,  substantial,  hearty 
pleasure  beamed  in  his  honest  blue  eyes,  to  make  Marie  say 
kindly  : 

"  Make  no  extraordinary  preparations  to  receive  us,  Bap- 
tiste ;  we  are  only  paying  you  a  flying  visit." 

"  I  shall  do  what  is  right,"  said  Baptiste,  sturdily. 

The  day  was  wet  and  dreary  ;  night  came  early,  and  set 
dark  and  starless  over  the  Marais.  At  a  quarter  past  eight 
the  street  door  of  Madame  la  Roche's  house  opened  to  let  out 
Maiie  and  Fanny.  MutRed  in  heaps  of  cloaks  and  shawls, 
Marie  had  some  trouble  in  moving  ;  Fanny,  bare-headed,  and 
with  a  light  silk  handkerchief  on  her  shoulders,  skipped  across 
in  a  moment,  and  stood  waiting  on  the  threshold  of  the  shop 
for  her  slow  companion. 

"  Good  evening,  Fanny,'^  said  Baptiste,  in  a  low  moved 
voice  ;   "  this  is  kind  of  you." 

"  And  it  would  have  been  very  kind  of  you.  Monsieur  Bap- 
tiste, to  have  come  across  and  helped  me  over  that  abominable 
mud,"  testily  said  Marie,  entering  the  shop  and  closing  the 
door. 

"  You  told  me  I  was  not  to  show  myself,"  said  Baptiste, 
astonished. 

"  And  pray  who  could  see  you  on  this  black  night  ?  some 
people  are  very  tiresome  ;  they  always  take  one  at  one's 
word." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  always  find  me  so,"  said  Baptiste 
slowly :  "  when  a  person  says  a  thing,  I  think  that  person 
means  it." 

He  spoke  to  Marie  and  looked  to  Fanny,  who  stood  smil- 
ing, casting  furtive  looks  about  the  shop,  and  seeming  pleased 
with  its  aspect. 

Baptiste's  honest  face  beamed  with  pleasure  and  pride,  and 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  65 

* 

throwing  open  the  door  of  the  back  room,  he  said  with  some 
stateliness  : 

"  Please  to  walk  in,  ladies." 

"  Keally  this  is  nice,"  said  Marie. 

Fanny  said  nothing,  and  Baptiste,  who  had  expected  some 
slight  degree  of  praise,  seemed  disappointed.  He  closed  the 
door,  drew  chairs  round  the  fire,  and  sat  down  with  a  slightly 
clouded  brow. 

Yet  to  one  who  had  seen  this  room  formerly,  and  who  saw 
it  now,  Baptiste  had  done  wonders.  A  bright  paper,  scat- 
tered with  roses  and  jonquils,  enlivened  the  dark  walls.  A 
marble  slab  had  re-placed  the  wood  of  the  mantel-piece.  A 
handsome  mirror  above  it,  with  a  small  gilt  time-piece,  and 
china  vases  for  flowers — though  no  uncommon  luxury  in  Paiis, 
where  every  one  has  a  clock  and  a  looking-glass, — gave  the 
place  a  gay  look.  The  room,  indeed,  had  not  got  any  larger 
than  it  was  formerly,  but  ihe  new  chairs,  covered  with  bright 
red  damask,  were  lighter  and  less  cumbersome  than  the  old 
ones ;  thin  muslin  curtains  enclosed  the  bed  in  its  recess, 
where  it  looked  lofty  like  a  throne  ;  on  the  small  round  table, 
pushed  on  one  side  that  the  three  might  find  room  around  the 
blazing  wood  fire,  there  was  a  tray  covered  with  a  white  cloth, 
under  which  imagination  might  revel  and  conceive  a  world  of 
dainties.  Baj^tiste  saw  Fanny  give  it  a  stolen  look,  and  he 
smiled,  for  he  knew  that  his  betrothed  had  a  sweet  tooth. 

"  Well,  Fanny,"  he  said,  unable  to  keep  in,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  this  nice  little  room  to  sit  and  work  in,  eh "?" 

"  Where  is  the  window  V  asked  Fanny,  who  knew  that 
this  room  was  lit  from  the  shop,  and  almost  as  dark  at  noon- 
day as  at  night ;  but  Baptiste  smiled,  rose,  and  pointing  to  a 
narrow  curtained  opening  in  the  wall,  which  the  bed  had  con-* 
cealed  from  Fanny's  view,  he  triumphantly  said  : 

"  There !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  resumed,  enjoying  Fanny's  surprise,  "  I  per- 
suaded the  landlord  to  let  me  have  it  made.  The  look-out  is 
not  very  gay,  but  when  the  sun  shines  on  the  wall  opposite,  it 
becomes  quite  cheerful." 

"  And  the  kitchen,"  said  Fanny,  gravely  ;  "  I  hope  you 
have  not  forgotten  that,  Baptiste.  This  room  is  too  pretty  and 
nice  to  cook  in." 

Baptiste  laughed,  walked  to  the  wall,  opened  a  cupboard, 
and  displayed  to  Fanny,  who  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh 
or  cry  at  the  sight,  a  complete  kitchen  within.  A  kitchen  in  a 
cupboard  is  one  of  those  continental  contrivances  which  be- 


66  SEVEN    TEARS. 

wilder  an  English  imagination ;  but  a  kitchen  in  a  cupboard 
is  really  a  practicable  thing,  and  better  than  no  kitchen  at  all. 
Breast  high,  and  in  the  centre,  a  space  was  devoted  to  tlie 
round  receptacles  for  charcoal  fires,  which  do  all  the  fine 
French  cookery  ;  how  or  where  the  smoke  went  Fanny  could 
not  see :  but  around  the  range  she  saw  hanging  on  nails  the 
requisite  number  of  pots  and  pans,  and  she  could  not  but  con- 
fess that  nothing  was  wanted.      It  was  a  complete  kitchen. 

"  Baptiste,  how  did  you  think  of  that  ?"  she  asked,  when 
be  closed  the  cupboard  and  resumed  his  seat  by  her  side. 

"  I  did  not  think  of  it,"  replied  Baptiste,  with  evident  regret, 
"  it  was  ray  working-man,  Joseph." 

"  Never  mind,  you  did  it,  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you  all  the  same,  Baptiste." 

Here  she  looked  again  at  the  tray,  and  Baptiste,  calling 
her  a  little  "  friande,"  rose  once  more,  and  handed  round  some 
hot  punch  and  cakes. 

"  Very  appropriate  on  this  cold  night,"  said  Marie,  whose 
good  humour  was  remarkable ;  "  you  have  a  great  deal  of 
judgment.  Monsieur  Baptiste." 

Baptiste  smiled,  and  filled  her  glass  twice  for  the  once  that 
he  filled  his  and  that  of  Fanny,  who  said  it  was  strong,  and 
made  her  head  ache,  and  that  she  preferred  the  cakes  and 
sweets. 

"  Strong  !  "  said  Marie,  amused,  "  child,  this  is  ladies' 
punch,  quite  harmless."  And  she  held  out  her  glass  and  winked 
at  Baptiste,  who  seemel  slightly  surprised,  but  dutifully  re- 
plenished her  tumbler.  But,  like  many  harmless  people,  this 
innocent  punch  had  tricks  of  its  own  ;  Marie  always  averred 
that  it  was  weak  as  water,  yet  scarcely  had  she  taken  this  last 
glass,  than  her  head  dropped  on  her  shoulder  in  a  state  of 
pleasant  drowsiness,  and  her  body  sank  back  in  the  deep  and 
warm  arm-chair  which  Baptiste  had  borrowed  from  his  shop 
for  her  use. 

"  Marie  is  sleepy,"  said  Fanny,  with  the  self-possession 
women  display  in  those  cases. 

"Yes,"  said  Baptiste  hesitatingly,  "the  heat  of  the  fire, 
you  see." 

A  long  silence  followed,  during  which  the  crackling  of  the 
wood  on  the  heurth  and  the  calm  snoring  of  Marie  in  her  chair 
alone  were  heard. 

Fanny  sat  straight  on  her  chair,  with  her  hands  folded  on 
her  lap,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire,  and  Baptiste  sat  look- 
ing at  her,  and   feeling  a  great  deal  too  happy  to  be  quite 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  67 

comfortable.  When  he  saw  the  girl  whom  he  had  liked  so  long, 
and  remembered  that  on  the  next  day  but  one  she  would  come 
and  share  this  pleasant  little  home  with  him,  his  heart  filled, 
and  he  could  only  sigh  with  pleasure. 

"  Fanny,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  hope  you  will  be  happy." 

Fanny  looked  up  at  him  very  earnestly,  but  did  not  answer 
one  word. 

"  If  I  thought  you  would  not,"  resumed  Baptiste,  looking 
at  the  fire,  "  it  would  make  me  wretched.  I  would  rather 
give  you  up  this  moment  than  think,  she  will  regret  having 
married  me." 

'  "  I  shall  not  regret  it,"  said  Fanny,  smiling  quietly,  "  why 
should  I  ?  I  feel  very  good  this  evening,  Baptiste,  and  I  am 
sure  you  will  help  me  to  be  good ;  you  will  have  patience  with 
me ;  you  will  not  take  a  hasty  word  for  more  than  it  means." 

"No,"  said  Baptiste. 

"  Why  should  we  not  be  happy  f  she  added  after  a  while. 
'We  are  both   young — I  am  scarcely  eighteen,  you   are  not 
twenty-five.     We  have  the   world,   work,    some    money,   and 
kind  friends  before  us.     Why  should  we  not  be  happy?" 

She  spoke  gravely,  and  looked  at  him  with  unwonted 
seriousness.  Baptiste  hesitated,  then  gave  a  look  at  Marie, 
and  said  : 

"  Fanny,  you  have  never  fairly  told  me  that  you  really 
liked  me.     Tell  me  so  now." 

"I  shall  have  to  say  it  after  to-morrow,"  said  Fanny; 
"  once  is  enough." 

Baptiste  looked  disappointed. 

"  What  ails  you  f  asked  Fanny,  frowning ;  "  am  I  a  girl 
to  do  what  I  do  not  like  doing  ?  I  have  agreed  to  marry  you  ; 
is  not  that  enough  ?  ought  you  not  to  be  satisfied  V — 

"  Perhaps  I  ought ;  but  you  speak  so  lightly,  so  coldly, 
always  in  jest." 

Fanny  laughed  and  looked  mischievous. 

"  If  you  go  on  so  I  shall  get  naughty,"  she  said ;  "  I  must 
tell  you  how  to  manage  me  once  for  all,  Baptiste,"  she  added 
confidentially.  "  You  must  not  love  me  like  the  apple  of  your 
eye,  spoil  me  a  good  deal,  and  rule  me  like  a  little  child, — •! 
am  not  fit  to  have  my  own  will,  that  is  the  truth." 

Baptiste  looked  bewildered,  then  rueful. 
"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  manage  that,"  he  said  ;   "  rule  you 
like  a  little  child,  but  how?" 

"  As  if  I  were  to  tell  you  !"  cried  Fanny,  looking  vexed,  "  I 
never  heard  anything  like  it." 


68  SEVEN   YEARS. 

"  And  you  will  never  get  that  from  me,"  said  Baptiste,  with 
a  sad  shake  of  the  head.  "  I  can  love  a  woman  honestly  a:?d 
faithfully,  and  love  none  but  her." 

Fanny  stamped  her  foot. 

"  Indeed,"  she  said,  "  well,  you  had  better  love  some  i)ne 
else.     I  warn  you,  I  am  dreadfully  jealous." 

"  Are  you '?  "  phlegmatically  replied  Baptiste.  "  But  I  can- 
not rule  a  woman,"  he  added,  calmly  continuing  his  former 
speech.  "  No,  Fanny,  I  must  respect  my  wife,  and  if  she  is  a 
child,  how  can  I  respect  her?" 

"  Oh !  tliat  will  never  do,"  exclaimed  Fanny,  "  I  tell  you  I 
have  been  spoiled  and  j)etted,  and  if  you  treat  me  so  grandly, 
I  shall  feel  dull." 

Baptiste  looked  thoroughly  disconcerted. 

Fanny  spoke  his  secret  fears :  she  would  be  dull  with  him. 
And,  what  was  worse,  he  knew  not,  even  remotely,  how  to 
keep  this  gay  young  girl  in  joy  and  good  humour.  The  mix- 
ture of  fondness,  teaching,  and  authority  which  Fanny  herself 
held  requisite  for  their  mutual  happiness,  Baptiste  could  not 
practise.  He  could  only  love  and  honour  like  any  knight  of 
old. 

Fanny  saw  his  troubled  looks,  and  was  sorry.  She  rose 
from  her  chair,  she  went  up  to  his,  and  standing  by  him  with 
friendly  grace,  she  said  cheerfully  : 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  Baptiste,  we  shall  not  be  able  to  help 
being  happy.  I  feel  sure  of  that.  As  I  said  a  while  ago,  we 
have  some  money,  kind  friends,  work  to  do,  and  the  world 
before  us.     What  more  is  wanted  f 

Baptiste  could  have  said  that  he  wanted  Fanny  to  love  him 
as  he  loved  her, — with  a  love  deep  set  and  beyond  the  reach 
of  change ;  luit  wdiere  was  the  use?  This  cheerful,  light  little 
girl  liked  him  as  well  as  she  could  like.  She  would  not  be- 
come a  ditterent  woman  just  because  they  were  going  to  be 
married  the  next  day  but  one.  He  folded  his  arms  with  a 
sigh  and  looked  up  at  her  ;  there  she  stood  by  him,  pretty, 
gay.  beaming,  an  image  of  graceful  cheerfulness,  but  looking 
as  liglit  as  a  feather. 

"  I  must  marry  her  after  to-morrow,"  thought  Baptiste, 
with  a  sort  of  calm  despaii',  ''  not  merely  because  I  am  bound 
to  her,  but  because  I  cannot  do  without  her,  and  yet  I  shall  be 
wretched  and  she  will  not  be  happy.  I  shall  spend  money 
and  waste  time  to  please  her  fancy,  and  get  a  jest  and  a  laugh, 
or  a  yawn  of  ennui,  for  my  pains ;  and  yet  I  must  do  it  with 


SEVEN    YEARS.  69 

my  eyes  open,  just  as  I  came  back  and  bought  myself  out  at 
her  bidding." 

"  What  ails  you?  what  are  you  thinking  of?  "  asked  Fanny, 
displeased  at  his  gloomy  looks  and  at  his  silence. 

"  Of  you,"  he  replied  calmly. 

"  Then  you  might  look  more  amiable,"  she  said  shortly,  and 
she  walked  back  to  her  chair  looking  vexed. 

"What  o'clock  is  it?  '"  asked  Marie,  wakening  up  with  a 
gtart.  "Eleven!  Fanny,  are  you  dreaming?  we  were  to  be  in 
at  ten.  Monsieur  Baptiste,  there  is  magic  in  that  chair  ;  it 
made  me  fall  asleep,  it  positively  did.  Fanny,  put  on  my 
shawl." 

She  had  risen  :  Fanny  rose  too,  and  wrapped  Marie  in  the 
shawls  and  cloaks  which  she  had  held  indispensable  to  the 
preservation  of  her  health.  Baptiste  silently  assisted  in  the 
task,  and,  scarcely  speaking,  saw  them  out ;  but  he  was  of  a 
taciturn  temper,  and  not  accustomed  to  many  words.  Marie 
saw  nothing  in  his  silence,  especially  as  his  adieu  had  all  the 
req^uisite  cordiality. 

"You  may  embrace  me,"  kindly  said  Marie  #is  they  parted, 
"  and  Fanny,  too,  I  allow  it."  Baptiste  had  already  complied 
with  the  first  part  of  this  precept,  he  now  turned  to  Fanny 
with  some  hesitation.  He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  stooping, 
for  though  not  unusually  short,  she  looked  a  mite  near  him, 
he  kissed  her  with  a  sigh. 

"  Good  night,  my  dear  little  Fanny,"  he  said  fondly  ; 
"like  me  at  least  as  much  as  you  can." 

"If  you  wish  for  it  do  not  ask  for  it,"  saucily  said  Fanny ; 
"you  know  I  am  possessed  with  the  spirit  of  contradiction. 
Good  night,  Baptiste." 

And  with  a  nod  half  friendly,  half  careless,  she  left  him 
standing  on  the  door-step  looking  after  her  in  the  dark  night, 
and  thinking  bitterly  :  "  that  girl  will  drive  me  mad,  I  know 
she  will." 

The  street  was  quickly  crossed ;  a  knock  at  the  street 
door  without  and  a  pull  at  the  porter's  cordon  within,  soon 
brought  Marie  and  Fanny  within  Madame  la  Roche's  house. 
The  lodge  was  dark,  for  the  concierge  had  retired  to  her  bed. 
but  her  wrinkled  face,  peering  through  the  frill  of  a  nighl 
^ap,  api)eared  behind  the  panes  of  tlie  glass  door. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "   asked  her  shrill  voice. 
"  Dear  me,  Madame,  you  might  put  on  your  spectacles  and 
look,"  loftily  replied  Marie,  between  whom  and  this  dignitary 


70  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

there  existed  a  constant  feud,  and  whose  natural  irascibility 
the  punch  might  have  heightened. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  that,  Madame,"  replied  the  lady  of 
the  lodge,  with  much  dignity  ;  "  no  one  who  liears  you  need 
look  at  you  in  order  to  identify  you." 

"  Madame,"  began  Marie,  turning  pale  with  wrath. 

"  Madame,"  interrupted  Madame  Grand,  "  we  will  have 
no  discussion,  if  you  please.  I  am  sleepy,  it  would  moreover 
disturb  the  house,  which  is,  I  thank  Heaven,  a  quiet  one  ;  but 
I  shall  feel  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you  will  take  up  this 
letter  to  your  mistress.  It  came  as  I  was  going  to  bed,  and  I 
could  not  of  course  take  it  up-stairs. 

She  held  forth  a  letter,  which  Fanny  took,  for  Marie  would 
have  seen  her  hand  burned  before  she  would  have  stooped  to 
an  act  of  so  much  meanness,  and  put  an  end  to  the  conversa- 
tion by  closing  her  glass  door  and  retiring  to  the  privacy  of 
her  sleeping  apartment,  viz.,  an  alcove  or  recess  in  the  lodge. 

"  Mark  my  words,  Fanny,"  said  Marie,  darting  a  wrath- 
ful look  at  the  dark  glass  door,  behind  which  her  enemy  had 
retreated,   "•  mark  my  words,  that  Avoman  will  not  end  well." 

There  is  no  denying  that,  on  hearing  a  prediction  which 
might  apply  to  a  scapegrace  of  fifteen,  but  Avas  scarcely  suited 
to  three-score,  the  lady  of  the  lodge  longed  to  come  forth  and 
resume  the  battle,  but  dignity  and  prudence  alike  kept  her 
where  she  was — in  bed,  and  satisfied  with  this  easy  victory, 
Marie  went  up-stairs  once  more  elate. 

The  staircase,  like  all  French  staircases,  was  lit  with  a 
lamp,  hung  midway  in  the  spiral  hollow,  that  went  from  the 
top  to  the  bottom  of  the  house.  A  sort  of  half  gloom  was  the 
result.  But  in  addition  to  the  imperfect  light  thus  diifused, 
another  lamp,  fixed  to  the  wall  close  by  the  door  of  Madame 
la  Eoche,  shed  its  glow  on  her  landing.  It  was  there,  and 
just  as  the  door  had  closed  upon  him,  that  Marie  and  Fanny 
met  Monsieur  Noire t.  They  thus  enjoyed  a- good  view  of  his 
active  figure,  and  Monsieur  Noiret  likewise  had  the  advan- 
tage of  recognizing  Marie's  portly  person  and  Fanny's  pretty 
face. 

"  Good  evening,  Marie,"  he  said  blandly,  "  we  are  old 
friends,  eh*?  Good  evening,  little  Fanny,  you  are  going  to 
get  married,  I  hear." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am,"  shortly  replied  Fanny,  with  whom 
Monsieur  Noiret  was  no  favourite. 

"  Yes,  sir,  we  are  old   friends,"  said  Marie ;  "  old  friends 


SEVEN   YEARS.  71 

in  years  of  our  own,  sir,  and  in  the  time  we  have  known  each 
othur,  sir." 

"Precisely,"  replied  Monsieur  Noiret,  showing  his  teeth 
again.      "Good  evening,  Marie;  good  night  little  Fanny." 

He  pinched  her  cheek,  nodded  to  them  both,  and  went 
down  humming  a  tune. 

"  A  pleasant  gentlemen  thirty  three  years  ago,"  said 
Marie,  with  a  sigh  ;  "  ah,  child,  if  I  had  liked  !  " 

She  shook  her  head  and  sighed  ay-ain  as  thev  entered. 

"  If  I  had  liked,"  she '  pursued,  "  I  might  have  been 
Madame  Noiret.  I  might,  indeed,  and  then  no  low  creatures 
in  lodges  would  have  had  their  say  at  me." 

Fanny  did  not  reply,  she  entered  her  room,  sat  down  on  a 
chair,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Bless  me,"  cried  Marie,  "  you  do  not  mind  that  low 
creature "?  " 

"  Oh  !  Marie,"  said  Fanny,  sobbing,   "  I  am  wretched  " 

"  Never  mind  her,  child." 

"  Oh  !  I  do  not ;  it  is  Baptiste.  I  feel  and  I  see  it,  we 
shall  not  be  happy  together  :  I  am  sure  of  it." 

And  her  tears  flowed  afresh.  Marie  stared  and  asked 
what  she  meant. 

"  He  likes  me  too  much,"  said  Fanny.  "  I  like  hiin  very 
much  to  he  sure ;  but  not  so  much  as  he  likes  me ;  he  sees  it, 
it  exasperates  him,  and  it  already  bores  me.  What  will  it 
be  when  we  are  married  1  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Marie,  much  relieved,  "  do  not  trouble 
yourself  about  that.  I  never  heard  wives  complaining  that 
their  husbands  teased  them  by  too  much  love." 

"  Baptiste  will  always  be  fond  of  me,"  said  Fanny,  red- 
dening. 

"  Yes,  dear,  but  not  more  than  you  will  like,"  pacifically 
replied  Marie ;  "  give  me  Madame  la  fJoche's  letter,  and  do 
not  trouble  yourself  about  Baptiste's  excessive  love.  It  will 
calm  down,  my  dear,  it  will  calm  down." 

Fanny  looked  very  vexed,  but  did  not  answer  one  word. 
Marie  took  the  letter  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

A  DOOR  had  formerly  led  from  the  bed-room  of  Madame 
la  Roche  to  that  of  Fanny  ;  as  both  rooms  were  accessible  by 
eitlxer  doors,  that  one  had  been  suppressed,  that  is  to  say,  a 


72  SEVEN   YEARS. 

chest  of  drawers  had  been  placed  against  it  on  Fanny's  side  ; 
on  Madame  la  Roche's  it  remained  visible,  though  unused : 
but  that  door,  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say,  could  not 
exclude  sound,  and  Fanny,  as  she  sat  alone,  fretting  at  Bnp- 
tiste's  over  fondness,  and  vexed  at  the  mere  thought  that  this 
troublesome  affection  might  grow  less,  could  not  help  hearing 
the  discourse  between  Madame  la  Roche  and  Marie  in  the 
next  room. 

"Marie,  where  have  you  been?"  asked  the  lady's  voice; 
to  which  Marie's  sturdy  tones  replied : 
"  Only  at  Baptiste's,  Madame." 

There  was  a  pause  before  the  voice  of  Madame  la  Roche 
was  heard  again. 

"  Was  Fanny  with  you  1 " 

"  Of  course,  Madame.  Is  this  the  nightcap  Madame 
means  to  wear  ?  " 

"  Mai-ie,  I   am  very  much  surprised.     I  thought  it  was 
agreed  the  young  man  was  to  l)e'kept  at  a  distance  1  " 
"  Fanny  wished  it,  Madame." 

"  I  do  not  say  there  was  any  harm  in  it ;  but  I  think, 
Marie,  it  would  have  been  respectful  to  tell  me  about  it." 

'•  And  not  to  stay  out  till  eleven,  without  leave,"  pat  in 
the  voice  of  Madame  Dupuis. 

"  No  one  is  any  thing  in  this  house,"  observed  the  voice 
of  Charlotte.  "  My  own  god-daughter  is  not  mine  ;  but  I 
have  always  been  used  so,  and  I  will  never  believe  that  if 
Monica  had  not  been  advised  to  it  she  would  have  gone  off  to 
America." 

"  May  I  ask  what  Monica  has  to  do  with  my  taking  Fanny 
over  to  Baptiste's  this  evening  1 "  calmly  inquired  Marie,  with 
whom  this  referring  of  Charlotte's  to  something  or  other  that 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter  in  hand,  was  a  constant  and 
irritating  grievance.  Charlotte  was  opening  her  lips  to  an- 
swer, and  war  was  imminent,  when  Madame  Dupuis  again 

said : 

"  I  wonder  you  went  out  without  leave,  Marie." 

This  second  interference  of  her  mistress's  daughter  prob- 
ably irritated  Marie,  for  in  anything  but  a  pleasant  voice  she 
observed,  "  that  she  did  not  know  she  had  two  mistresses." 

"  Marie,  you  are  very  rude,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  "  I 
beg  you  will  not  answer  my  daughter  so." 

"  I  always  spoke  my  mind  to  Mademoiselle  Cecile  when 
she  was  a  child,"  put  in  Marie,  with  great  spirit,  "  and  I  can- 
not leave  off  now." 


SEVEN    TEARS.  73 

"  I  know  you  are  an  attaelied  friend,  more  than  a  servant," 
said  Madame  la  Roche,  "  but,  still,  Marie,  you  are  too  rude. 
The  world  has  seen  and  commented  on  it.  It  is  my  duty  to 
put  a  stop  to  it." 

"  Maman  has  been  a  great  deal  too  indulgent,"  put  m 
Madame  Dupuis. 

"  Cecile,  do  not  interfere.  I  am  quite  able  to  direct  my 
own  servants.  Yes,  Marie,  I  must  put  a  stop  to  it.  You  talk 
too  loud  ;  moreover,  you  are  always  quarrelling  with  the  por- 
tress, Madame  Grand,  a  thing  I  have  the  greatest  objection 
to.  What  were  you  and  she  saying  this  evening  1  Cecile 
and  I  actually  heard  the  noise  up  here." 

"  I  know  Madame  always  takes  the  portress's  part,"  indig- 
nantly said  Marie  ;  "  but  I  did  not  expect  to  be  turned  upon 
this  evening,  because,  as  Fanny  knows  and  can  say,  I  resented 
that  Madame  the  portress  should  give  me  a  letter  to  caiTy, 
which  it  is  her  bounden  duty  to  deliver  to  the  mistress  of  the 
house." 

"  A  letter  !  dear  me,  Mai'ie,  how  very  odd  you  should 
keep  it  all  this  time,  and  stand  talking  there.  Who  knows 
but  it  is  of  importance  !  Give  it  to  me.  Just  look  at  it 
Cecile,  and  tell  me  what  it  is.  You  may  read  it  aloud.  I 
have  no  secrets  from  Maiie  and  Charlotte." 

"  It  is  from  a  Monsieur  Dauray,"  said  the  voice  of  Mad- 
ame Dupuis. 

"  I  know  no  one  of  the  name  ;  go  on,  my  dear." 

Madame  Dupuis  read  : 
"  Madame, 

"  I  have  not  the  honour  of  being  acquainted  with  you,  and 
yet  I  must  wound  your  heart  with  the  most  painful  news.  I 
keep  the  inn  of  the  Lion  d' Argent,  in  the,  town  of  Laval.  A 
gentleman,  a  stranger,  came  here  yesterday,  and  took  the 
room  number  one.  This  morning  we  found  him  dying  in  his 
room  ;  he  had  committed  suicide;  at  least  we  think  so,  from 
the  only  words  we  heard  him  utter :  '  I  am  a  ruined  and  dis- 
aonoured  man, — I  will  not  live  dishonoured.'  Tiiat  gentle- 
man, Madame,  I  write  it  with  sorrow,  is  Monsieur  Dupuis, 
your  son-in-law." 

Here  Fanny,  who  had  been  listening,  with  sudden  anxiety 
heard  a  fearful  scream,  and  a  heavy  fall  on  the  floor. 

Scarcely  knowing  how,  Fanny  rushed  out  of  her  room 
into  that  of  Madame  la  Roche,  and  there  beheld  a  picture  she 
never  forgot.     Madame  la  Roche  stood  in  her  white  night- 
dress, looking  more  amazed  than  horrified  ;  Madame  Dupuis 
4 


74  SEVEN    YEAES. 

lay  on  the  floor  at  her  mother's  feet,  and  a  dark  stream  of 
blood  was  pouring  from  her  lips  down  on  the  letter  which 
she  still  held ;  Marie  stood  in  the  act  and  attitude  in  which 
the  news  liad  found  her, — holding  with  one  uplifted  hand  a 
decanter  of  \v;iter,  and  a  glass  in  the  other  ;  Charlotte  sat  and 
stared,  and  the  lamp  burned  calmly,  and  the  fire  blazed  cheer- 
fully, on  this  scene  of  woe.  The  white  frightened  face  of 
Fanny  at  the  door  broke  the  spell  that  petrified  them  ;  Mad- 
ame la  Roche  groaned  and  fainted  ;  Marie  dropped  decanter 
and  glass  with  a  crash,  and  rushed  forward  in  time  to  catch 
her  mistress ;  Fanny  knelt  on  the  carpet,  and  tried  to  raise 
the  head  of  jNIadame  Dupuis,  and  to  stop  the  blood  that  still 
flowed  from  her  white  lips,  though  more  slowly. 

"  What  shall  we  do  ]  What  shall  we  do  1  "  cried  Marie 
distracted  ;  "  jMadame  is  as  cold  as  a  stone,  I  cannot  rouse  her 
a  bit.     Help  me,  Charlotte." 

But  Charlotte  did  not  stir.  She  seemed  paralyzed  and 
groaned  on  her  chair. 

"  Marie,"  said  Fainiy,  in  a  low  strange  voice,  "  can  you 
carry  Madame  into  my  room "?  if  you  can,  do  so,  and  do  not 
be  in  a  hurry  to  wakrn  iK-r." 

JNIarie  turned  round  from  her  senseless  mistress,  and 
stared  at  Fanny,  who  merely  said,  "  Look." 

The  pale  head  of  Madame  Dupuis  still  rested  against  the 
young  girl's  lap  ;  her  eyes  were  open,  but  her  features  were 
white  and  rigid  as  marble. 

"  Dead  !  "  said  Marie,  bewildered. 

"  Dead  !  "  screamed  Charlptte,  suddenly  springing  to  her 
foster-daughter's  side. 

"  Ay,  dead — dead  !  "  echoed  Fanny,  clasping  her  hands, 
"  dead  in  a  ntoment." 

Ay,  Fanny,  dead  in  a  moment ;  called  from  all  the  little 
follies  of  life  to  grief,  and  from  grief  to  death.  Take  the  les- 
son to  heart,  and  keep  it  there  ! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Baptiste  was  not  superstitious  ;  but  happy  dreams  influ- 
ence  the  waking  moods  of  the  wisest,  and  his  dreams  that 
night  were  of  so  rosy  a  hue,  that  he  must  needs  be  cheerful 
the  next  morning.  He  got  up  early,  opened  his  shop,  took 
down  the  shutters,  and  looked  up  with  a  smile  at  Faimy's 
window.     Her  curtains  moved  slightly  ;  he  did  not  see  her. 


SEVEN    YEAKS.  Y5 

indeed,  but  he  felt  sure  that  she  ^xas  slyly  watching  him. 
Baptiste  shook  his  head. 

"  That  girl  will  give  me  a  world  of  trouble,"  he  thought, 
"  but  a  world  of  joy  too — that  is  the  truth." 

And  he  began  stuffing  a  sofa  with  horse-hair,  and  singing 
as  he  worked  :  an  unusual  token  of  cheerfulness. 

"  The  master  is  merry  to-day,"  said  Joseph,  his  working- 
man,  who  walked  in  as  he  spoke. 

"  A  man  can  well  be  merry  when  he  is  going  to  marry  a 
pretty  girl  the  morrow,"  replied  Baptiste  with  a  knowing  nod, 
"  you  will  find  that  out  yet,  Joseph." 

Joseph  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  he  was  too  poor 
to  marry.  His  master  slapped  him  on  the  back,  and  said 
kindly  : 

''  Work,  Joseph  ;  do  not  drink  ;  work,  and  I  will  help 
you,  and  you  will  put  money  by  ;  and  if  in  two  yeai's'  time 
you  cannot  many,  my  name  is  not  Baptiste  Watt." 

"  Will  the  master  get  me  a  wife  like  Mademoiselle 
Fanny  ?  "  asked  Joseph,  demurely. 

Baptiste  laughed  till  his  blue  eyes  shone. 

"  Get  you  a  girl  like  Fanny,  ah  !  my  lad,  girls  like  that 
are  not  got  every  day.  Every  day  !  /  never  saw  another 
like  her." 

"  Nor  I,"  sighed  Joseph,  with  mock  envy.  He  thought 
Fanny  a  pretty  girl,  but  lie  thought,  too,  that  there  were 
plenty  twice  as  handsome  everywhere  around  him. 

"The  fiict  is,"  pursued  Baptiste,  sitting  down,  and  looking 
meditative,  "  that  Fanny  deserves  a  better  match  than  Bap- 
tiste Watt ;  but  human  nature  is  selfish,  and  I  cannot  help 
being  selfish  and  taking  her.  It  is  human  nature,  Joseph, 
human  nature." 

Joseph  philosophically  replied  that  it  was,  and  set  to  work. 
But  though  Baptiste  felt  thoroughly  happy,  he  could  not 
work  :  he  was  haunted  with  a  vision  of  Fanny  in  the  white 
silk  dress  which  Madame  la  Roche  had  kindly  provided,  and 
to  which  Madame  Dupuis  had  added  the  tulle  veil  and  orange 
wreath.  Marie  had  let  him  into  a  secret :  at  seven,  b^'fore 
going  to  her  work,  Fanny  M'as  to  try  on  this  bridal  attire  ; 
and  she,  Marie,  had  added,  "  that  she  would  do  what  she  could 
tor  him," — which  meant,  Baptiste  supposed,  that  she  would 
kindly  procure  him  a  sight  of  his  beloved,  if  he  would  only 
be  in  the  way  ;  now  it  was  just  upon  seven,  and  Baptiste  was 
longing  to  go,  and  hesitating  to  do  so.  "  The  little  thing  will 
only  laugh  at  me,"  he  thought,  with  a  deep  sigh  ;  "  let  her, — 


76  SEVEN    TEAES. 

I  cannot  help  it."  And  giving  Joseph  a  few  orders,  he  rose 
left  the  shop,  crossed  the  street,  entered  the  house  of  Madame 
la  Roche,  for  the  wide  gate  stood  ever  open,  and,  without  be- 
ing seen  by  the  portress,  he  went  up  to  the  first-floor  by  a 
back  staircase.  He  rang,  expecting  Marie  to  open  ;  it  was 
Fanny  who  came.  On  seeing  him  she  burst  into  tears,  and 
flung  her  arms  round  his  neck.  Baptiste  turned  pale,  he  knew 
that  something  dreadful  had  happened,  and  swift  and  sudden 
came  the  thought :  "I  shall  not  marry  Fanny  to-morrow." 
He  closed  the  door,  which  had  remained  open ;  he  drew 
Fanny  to  his  breast,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again  ;  and 
Fanny,  her  shyness  and  her  coquetry  all  gone  with  grief,  kept 
her  arms  around  him,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  where 
she  sobbed  freely.  At  length  she  became  more  calm  and 
looked  up.  Baptiste  had  taken  her  into  that  quiet  dining-room 
where  he  had  found  her  that  day  month.  He  had  sat  down, 
and  still  holding  her  fast,  he  looked  with  an  aching  heart  at  a 
white  dress  covered  with  muslin,  lightly  thrown  on  a  chair, 
and  an  orange  wreath  near  it ;  Marie  had  placed  them  there 
for  five  minutes  on  the  preceding  evening,  and  forgotten  them 
in  the  sudden  calamities  of  the  night. 

"  Oh !  Fanny,  my  darling  little  Fanny,"  said  Baptiste 
with  a  groan,  "  what  is  it  ?  what  has  happened  1 " 

"  Then  you  do  not  know  ?  "  asked  I'anny. 

■"'  I  know  nothing,"  said  Baptiste,  with  another  groan  ;  "  I 
left,  my  work,  I  crossed  the  street  to  see  you  with  those  jjretty 
whire  things  on." 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  Fanny,  softly  stroking  his  cheek  and 
cryn-g  again  ;  "  poor  fellow  ;  it  is  not  a  wedding  we  shall 
have  to-morrow,  Baptiste,  but  a  funeral, — Madame  Dupuis  is 
dead  " 

"  Dead  !  Fanny,  dead  !  " 

"  Ay,  dead,  killed  by  grief."  She  told  him  the  whole 
story  in  a  few  words. 

A  third  groan  expressed  Baptiste's  feelings. 

"  Faimy,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  am  a  wretch  ;  God  knows  I 
am  sorry  for  the  poor  lady,  for  the  child,  for  the  mother  ;  but 
still,  Fanny,  I  cannot  help  thinking  too  that  I  shall  not  have 
you  to-morrow.  Ah  !  why  were  we  not  married  a  week  ago  1 
Well,  well,  it  is  of  little  use  to  think  of  that  now.  What  can 
I  do  for  them,  Fanny  1 " 

"  Nothing,  Baptiste.  We  have  sent  for  Monsieur  Noiret, 
that  old  friend  of  Madame  la  Roche's,  you  know ;  he  will  see 
to  the  funeral." 


SEVEN    YEAES.  77 

Baptiste  groaned  again,  and  asked  to  see  Marie. 

"  You  cannot  see  her,"  replied  Fanny,  shaking  her  head, 
"  she  is  "with  Madame  la  Roche,  who,  poor  lady,  has  spent  the 
night  in  tc-ars  and  sorrow  ;  but  if  you  will  come  in  to  my 
gud-mother,  I  dare  say  she  will  like  to  see  you." 

She  rose  and  led  the  way  to  her  god-mother's  room. 

Charlotte  was  up,  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  and  looking 
with  a  bewildered  glance  on  the  little  orphan,  who  was  play- 
ing merrily  at  her  feet. 

"  Papa  is  gone,"  he  was  singing ;  "  he  is  gone.  lie  will 
not  come  back  ;  he  will  not  come  back." 

"  Well,  Monsieur  Baptiste,"  said  Charlotte,  looking  at 
him,  and  groaning,  "  you  see  what  life  is, — death  without 
warning,  children  singing  above  their  fathers'  graves.  I  hope 
and  trust  that  you  will  have  the  wisdom  to  give  up  all  the 
vanities  of  life." 

"  If  by  the  vanities  of  life  you  mean  Fanny,"  said  Baptiste, 
drawing  the  young  girl's  arm  within  his, "  I  declare  that  noth- 
ing shall  make  me  give  her  up." 

"  I  wonder  at  you  !  "  querulously  said  Charlotte.  "  Death 
is  in  the  house,  and  you  must  needs  talk  nonsense  ;  1  wonder 
at  you.     Charles,  be  quiet." 

*'  Can  I  be  of  any  use  to  you  1  "  asked  Baptiste. 

Charlotte  sighed, 

"  I  am  broken  with  pains,"  she  answered,  "  if  you  have  an 
easier  chair  than  this  I  should  like  it ;  if  not,  do  not  mind. 
Anything  will  do  fur  me." 

Baptiste  was  surprised  at  a  request,  which  to  him  savoured 
of  the  vanities  of  life,  but  he  said  it  should  be  complied  with  ; 
and  perceiving  tliat  his  presence  was  not  required,  and  was 
more  likely  to  lead  to  disturbance  than  to  be  of  use,  he  bade 
Charlotte  good  morning  and  retired.  Fanny  saw  him  out. 
As  they  parted,  Baptiste  said  with  a  heavy  sigh : 

"  Fanny,  I  know  I  am  wretch  to  speak  of  it,  but  you  must 
promise  to  marry  me  at  least  this  day  three  months." 

"  No,  Baptiste,  1  cannot  do  that;  but  I  will  promise  to 
marry  you  when  you  like,  for  I  know  that  you  will  like  noth- 
ing which  is  not  right." 

Still  Baptiste  looked  unhappy,  and  ill  at  ease.  Fanny 
took  both  his  large  heavy  hands  in  her  own,  and  looking  up 
at  him,  said  simply  : 

"  Baptiste,  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  speak  of  that  now  either  ; 
but  like  you  I  feel  that  I  must.  I  know  I  grieved  you  last 
night ;  I  know  you  thought  me  light  and  too  careless ;  per- 


78  SEVEN    YEARS. 

haps  I  was ;  perhaps  I  even  grumbled  at  your  over-fondness 
for  me.  Ah  !  Baptiste,  when  death  and  sorrow  fell  so  heavily 
around  me,  when  1  knelt  on  the  floor,  with  the  head  of  the 
poor  dying  lady  on  my  lap,  my  thought  flew  to  you,  and  1 
felt  it  was  a  good  thing  to  be  so  much,  so  fondly  loved  by  a 
good  man." 

Never  before  had  Fanny  spoken  so  kindly.  Baptiste 
looked  down  at  her  much  moved,  and  from  his  disappoint- 
ments drew  comfort.  "  She  has  a  good  little  heart,"  he 
thought,  "  and  I  was  a  fool  not  to  see  it." 

"  Go  now,"  said  Fanny,  rather  sadly  ;  "  if  you  stay  people 
will  say  that  we  make  love  whilst  the  house  is  in  mourning." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  do  not  want  me,  Fanny  1  " 

"  Quite  sure." 

Thus  dismissed,  Baptiste  left,  sighing,  as  he  went  down  the 
staircase,  the  old  proverb,  "  Man  proposes,  God  disposes," 
which  applied  wonderfully  to  his  present  case. 

As  he  passed  by  the  lodge,  Madame  Grand  put  out  her 
dry  withered  face  and  beckoned  him  in. 

^  "  Well,  Monsieur  Watt,"  she  said  mysteriously,  "  you 
know  the  news.  Sad,  eh  1  sad,— very.  And  vi^hen  do  you 
get  married  ?  " 

"  This  is  no  time  to  talk  of  weddings,"  coldly  answered 
Baptiste. 

Madame  Grand  peered  in  his  face  and  nodded. 

"  A  shrewd  man  !  "  she  said,  "  a  shrewd  man.  Yes,  Mon- 
sieur Watt,  you  do  well  to  mind  what  you  are  about.  1  smell 
changes,  Monsieur  Watt ;  I  smell  changes,  and  so  do  you. 
A  word  to  the  wise,"  and  she  nodded  and  winked  at  poor 
Baptiste,  who  stared  and  walked  away  without  having  appre- 
hended her  meaning. 

•'  Ay,  ay,"  soliloquized  Madame  Grand,  when  he  was  gone, 
"  he  will  never  marry  that  saucy  little  Fanny  who  took  the 
letter  from  me  last  night,  and  never  so  much  as  looked  at  me  : 
the  little  monkey  !  We  shall  see  what  sort  of  a  figure  big 
Marie  will  cut  now.  I  am  sorry  for  the  old  lady,  but  she  is 
a  simpleton,  and  if  people  will  be  simple,  why  they  must  bear 
the  consequences,  that  is  all." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  funeral  was  over,  and  Madame  la  Roche  was  sitting 
in  her  room,  listening  vaguely  to  Monsieur  Noiret.     That 


SEVEN    YEAES.  79 

gentleman  had  made  some  sad  discoveries  :  he  had  found  that 
Madame  la  Roche's  fortune  was  placed  mider  the  control  of 
her  son-in-law,  but  what  the  unfortunate  man  had  done  with 
it,  whether  he  had  gambled  or  squandered  it  away,  as  well 
as  his  own,  Monsieur  Noiret  could  not  discover.  One  thing 
he  saw  plainly, — the  money  had  vanished,  and  Madame  la 
Roche  was  literally  left  destitute.  Monsieur  Noiret  had  just 
been  imparting  the  painful  news  with  as  much  caution  as  he 
thought  required  to  present  hysterics  or  a  fainting  fit,  and  he 
was  expecting  a  burst  of  tears  at  the  very  least,  when,  to  his 
great  surprise,  Madame  la  Roche,  whose  grief,  like  her  temper, 
was  composed  and  meek,  calmly  contradicted  him. 

"  No,  no.  Monsieur  Noiret,"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  "  it  is 
all  a  niistake,  depend  upon  it.  I  have  indeed  suffered  a  severe 
calamity  ;  I  have  lost  my  dear  child  and  her  husband,  but  the 
money  is  all  right  enough.  Would  to  Heaven  the  unhappy 
man  had  trusted  to  me,  and  asked  me  for  some  of  that  worth- 
less money,  which  cannot  give  me  back  my  poor  daughter." 

Monsieur  Noiret  coughed  behind  his  hand,  and  lo(jked  con- 
siderably puzzled.  He  was  not  at  all  so  sure  as  Madame  la 
Roche  that  she  had  so  much  of  that  worthless  money  to  spare 
as  she  fancied,  but  how  to  convince  her  of  this  melancholy 
truth  did  not  seem  easy. 

Monsieur  Noiret  stroked  his  chin,  thought  a  while,  and, 
without  attempting  to  argue  the  case  with  Madame  la  Roche, 
he  said  simply  : 

"  May  I  ask,  my  dear  Madame,  how  your  fortune  is  in- 
vested ?  " 

"  Oh  !  dear  yes.  Monsieur  Noiret,  I  have  no  secrets  from 
you.  The  best  part  of  my  money  is  in  the  three  per  cents  ; 
the  rest  in  railwav  shares.  Altogether  five  hundred  thousand 
francs." 

"  Capital  !  "  said  Monsieur  Noiret. 

"  Oh  !  capital,  of  course.  Ah  !  the  money  is  safe  enough, 
and  if  I  only  had  my  poor  dear  child — "  a  burst  of  tears  con- 
cluded the  sentence, 

"  Shares  and  papers  of  the  kind  are  valuable  things,"  said 
M.  Noiret.  "  1  have  no  doubt  you  kept  yours  very  safely. 
May  I  ask  to  see  them  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Dupuis,  my  poor  son-in-law,  had  them,"  said 
Madame  la  Roche,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  gave  them  to  him  to  keep 
and  manage  for  me." 

"  They  must  be  lost  then,"  said  M.  Noiret,  "  for  they  have 
not  been  found  amongst  his  papers." 


80  SEVEN    YEAES. 

"  Lost !  "  said  Madame  la  Roche,  "  but  they  are  mine." 

"  Were,"  suggested  M.  Noiret.  "  Now,  unfortunately; 
they  are  the  property  of  some  other  person." 

She  stared  at  him  in  amazement,  but  with  a  dim  revelation 
of  the  calamity  she  had  refused  to  believe  in.  Gently  but 
firmly  he  pursued  his  advantage,  and  by  going  over  and  over 
again  the  same  ground,  he  convinced  Madame  la  Roche  that 
she  was  a  poor  and  destitute  woman.  She  burst  into  tears 
and  clasped  her  hands. 

"  The  poor  child,"  she  cried,  "  the  poor  child.  It  does  not 
matter  for  me,  I  am  an  old  woman,  but  the  poor  child  !  " 

Monsieur  Noiret  administered  the  comfort  usual  in  such 
cases.  He  spoke  of  Providence,  and  held  out  delusive  visions 
of  helping  friends,  and  some  unknown  good  that  was  to  turn 
up,  until  Madame  la  Roclie  was  pretty  well  pacified,  after 
which  he  said  thoughtfully  : 

"  I  am  sorry  though  this  house  is  not  yours." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Madame  la  Roche,  astounded. 

"  Yes,"  he  resumed,  "  it  is  disagreeable,  it  is  unpleasant ; 
but  you  know  you  became  security  for  Monsieur  Dupuis  six 
months  ago  ;  a  mere  matter  of  form,  as  we  then  thought,  but 
a  very  serious  matter  it  turns  out  now.  He  has  left  debts, 
and  of  course  his  creditors  will  come  down  upon  you.  I  am 
very  sorry,  I  really  am ;  but  patience  is  the  best  remedy." 

This  was  the  merest  fiction ;  patience  was  no  remedy  at 
all  in  the  present  case :  but  Madame  la  Roche  did  not  think 
of  that.  She  stared  at  Monsieur  Noiret  in  mingled  amaze  and 
incredulity.  She  had  signed  some  paper  or  other,  to  be  sure, 
but  that  she  had  thus  alienated  licr  ancestral  property,  that 
she  had  only  left  herself  the  bed  she  slept  on  and  the  clothes 
she  wore,  seemed  too  much  for  belief.  Monsieur  Noiret's 
bask  was  neither  gracious  nor  pleasing,  but  he  conscientiously 
persevered  in  it,  and  Madame  la  Roche  was  convinced.  She 
cast  a  dreary  look  around  her  luxurious  and  comfortable  home, 
then  she  hung  her  head  and  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"  1  thought  to  die  here  ;  but  the  will  of  God  be  done." 

Again  Monsieur  Noiret  spoke  words  of  comfort,  but  this 
time  Madame  la  Roche  could  not  heed  him. 

"  My  poor  servants  ! "  she  ejaculated.  "  You  must  tell 
them.,  Monsieur  Noiret,  I  have  not  the  heart.  They  were  all 
to  be  pensioned  off  at  my  death.  God  help  them,  poor 
souls." 

"  Very  unpleasant,  certainly,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  as 
he  rang  the  bell.     It  was  Fanny  who  answered  it. 


SEVEN    YEARS.  81 

*'  My  dear,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  "  will  you  be  kind 
enough  to  call  the  servants  togetlier,  and  bring  them  here? 
Madame  la  Roche  has  a  communication  to  make  to  them." 

Fanny  bent  her  head  in  token  of  acquiescence  and  van- 
ished. In  a  few  minutes  the  door  opened  again,  and  the  little 
household  of  JMadame  la  Roche  appeared.  Charlotte  and 
Marie  stood  foremost ;  behind  them  stood  the  cook  and  coach- 
man, who  had  only  been  ten  years  in  the  family,  and  were 
still  held  new-comers.  Fanny  remained  a  little  apart,  hold- 
ing Charles  by  the  hand. 

Monsieur  Noiret  took  a  pinch  of  snufF,  smiled  a  good- 
humoured  smile,  and  said  cheerfully  : 

"  Well,  my  friends,  life  is  made  up  of  ups  and  downs,  as 
we  all  know.  You  are  aware  that  a  sad  calamity  has  befollen 
your  excellent  mistress, — she  has  lost  money,  and  much  more 
than  money.  I  dare  say  I  need  scarcely  tell  you  that  her 
household  must  be  broken  up.  Indeed,  Madame  la  Roche 
leaves  this  house  for  a  home  too  narrow  to  receive  her  and 
you." 

The  cook  burst  into  tears,  and  sank  in  the  arms  of  the 
coachman,  who  seemed  considerably  affected,  and  muttered 
something  about  not  minding  some  wages  owing.  But  JNIon- 
sieur  Noiret  at  once  waved  his  hand,  and  dej)recated  any  such 
ofter. 

"  Thanks,  thanks,"  he  said,  "  but  there  is  no  need  for  that. 
Madame  la  Roche  merely  wished  me  to  inform  you  that  she 
could  keep  you  no  longer."' 

"  And  does  Madame  mean  to  say  that  I  am  going  to  leave 
her  ?  "  said  Marie,  wrathfully,  nodding  her  cap  at  Monsieur 
Noiret,  and  for  once  forgetting  that  they  were  old  friends. 
*'  Why,  what  would  she  do  without  me  1  she  is  no  more  fit  to 
take  care  of  herself  than  a  baby." 

Before  Monsieur  Noiret  could  reply,  Charlotte  had  calmly 
observed  : 

"  Of  course  nothing  that  has  been  said  concerns  me.  I  have 
been  forty-five  years  with  Madame,  and  it  is  absurd  to  sup- 
pose I  could  leave  her." 

The  cook,  who  had  partly  recovered  her  first  emotion,  was 
likewise  going  to  enter  a  protest  against  leaving  Madame,  and 
would  no  doubt  have  found  excellent  arguments  to  prove  that 
Madame  la  Roche  could  not  possibly  do  without  her,  when 
Fanny  quietly  stepped  across  the  floor,  and  going  up  to 
Madame  la  Roche,  who  sat  mute  and  pale  in  her  chair,  she 
said  gently  : 

4* 


82  SEYEN    YEAKS. 

"  Dear  Madame,  you  cannot  remain  alone,  it  is  out  of  the 
question.  You  want  us  to  take  care  of  you  and  little  Charles ; 
indeed  you  do,  and  we  will  stay  with  you." 

"  My  dear,"  began  Madame  la  Roche,  "  my  money — " 

"  I  will  earn  money  for  you,  and  Marie,  and  Charlotte,  and 
the  boy  there,"  said  Fanny  cheerfully  ;  "  and  I  do  not  care 
what  happens — I  will  never  leave  you." 

She  spoke  with  an  earnestness  that  flushed  her  cheek  and 
lit  her  eyes.  It  was  the  beautiful  story,  for  ever  young  and 
true,  of  faithful  human  love,  stronger  than  calamity  or  grief. 
It  was  Ruth  saying  again  to  Naomi, — "  Thy  people  shall  be 
my  people,  and  thy  God  shall  be  my  God." 

Madame  la  Roche  looked  at  the  faithful  girl,  at  the  orphan 
child,  at  the  two  old  servants,  whose  savings,  she  remembered 
it  now,  had  been  swallowed  up  with  her  handsome  fortune, 
and  she  wrung  her  hands  in  sore  distress.  With  a  keenness 
of  vision  to  which  long  prosperity  had  not  used  her,  she  saw 
the  melancholy  future  before  her,  and  in  that  future — brief 
though  her  years  must  necessarily  make  it — Fanny,  worn  with 
ceaseless  toil,  and  consuming  youth,  beauty,  and  love,  in  a 
self-appointed  task  !  Madame  la  Roche  did  not  speak,  but 
groaned  and  clasped  her  hands. 

"  My  good  friends,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  waving  his 
hand,  "  your  mistress,  as  you  see,  is  considerably  affected  ;  be 
so  kind  as  to  withdraw  and  leave  me  with  her,  she  and  I  have 
much  to  discuss  together." 

This  was  a  fiction  ;  Monsieur  Noiret  had  little  or  nothing 
more  to  say  to  Madame  la  Roche,  but  the  assertion  produced 
the  desired  effect ;  the  cook  and  coachman  withdrew  first ; 
Marie  and  Charlotte  followed,  and  Fanny  closed  the  door,  and 
left  Monsieur  Noiret  and  Madame  la  Roche  once  more  alone. 

Their  discourse  was  brief  A  few  words  of  curt  and  com- 
mon-place consolation  passed  Monsieur  Noiret's  lips,  then  he 
rose,  bade  Madame  la  Roche  a  good  afternoon,  and  left  her  so 
crushed  by  the  unexpected  misfortune  it  had  been  his  un- 
pleasant task  to  reveal,  that  she  allowed  him  to  depart  without 
seeing  him  to  the  door,  or  summoning  a  servant  to  open  it  for 
him. 

The  omission  was  supplied  by  Fanny,  who  sat  in  the  din- 
ing-room, with  her  arm  passed  around  the  neck  of  Charles, 
for  whose  amusement  she  had  taken  a  book  of  engravings 
from  the  library,  and  which  he  now  looked  at  as  it  lay  open 
on  her  lap. 

On  hearing  Monsieur  Noiret's  step  Fanny  looked  up,  and 


SEVEN    TEAKS.  83 

percemng  that  he  was  alone,  she  wanted  to  rise  and  open  the 
door  for  him,  but  Monsieur  Noiret  would  not  allow  it. 

"  Go  on  and  amuse  the  child,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  it  makes 
a  charming  picture,"  and  he  looked  rather  hard  at  Fanny,  on 
whose  cheek  the  flush  of  recent  emotion  still  lingered. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he,  resting  his  hand  on  the  back  of  her 
chair,  "  I  have  known  you  long.  Allow  me  to  ask  if  you  are 
aware  of  the  pledge  you  have  given  to  Madame  la  Roche,  who, 
poor  thing,  wishes  for  no  such  sacrifice  from  you.  I  under- 
stand you  were  going  to  marry,  too  :  pray  how  will  you 
manage  that  now  1  No  one  can  serve  two  masters.  You 
cannot  belong  to  Madame  la  Roche  and  this  little  fellow,"  he 
added,  touching  the  child's  fair  head,  "  and  belong  also  to 
your  betrothed." 

"  Baptiste  would  not  wish  me  to  be  ungrateful,"  said 
Fanny. 

"  My  dear,  a  man  wants  the  woman  he  likes  for  himself," 
was  Monsieur  Noiret's  answer. 

The  young  girl  seemed  much  moved  ;  perhaps  she  had 
not  yet  thought  of  that ;  her  lids  fell ;  her  lips  quivered. 

"  God  will  provide,"  she  said  at  length. 

"  Very  pious  and  proper,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  smiling; 
"  well,  my  dear,  I  do  not  disapprove ;  I  only  wished  to  know 
if  you  had  reflected  on  the  consequences  of  your  offer.  I  see 
you  have.     I  wish  you  joy.     Good  afternoon." 

Fanny  rose  mechanically,  and  saw  Monsieur  Noiret  to  the 
door.  When  she  came  back,  Charles  was  as  eager  as  ever 
about  the  picture-book,  but  Fanny  heard  him  with  an  abstracted 
glance  and  thoughts  far  away.  For  the  first  time  she  felt  the 
burden  heavy  and  unforeseen  that  was  falling  on  a  youth 
hitherto  so  smiling  and  so  fair. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

Within  a  few  days  blue  bills  were  placarded  all  over  the 
front  of  number  two,  advertising  it  for  sale  by  auction.  It 
was  soon  disposed  of,  and  to  such  advantage,  that  the  proceeds 
of  the  sale  more  than  covered  the  sum  for  which  Madame  la 
Roche  had  rendered  herself  liable.  Her  furniture  remained 
h  T  own,  an  unexpected  piece  of  good  fortune,  on  which 
Monsieur  No'ret  congratulated  her, 

"  It  is  extremely  valuable,"  he  said,  "  and  will  bring  in  a 
good  deal." 


84:  SEVEN    TEAES. 

"  Then  I  must  sell  it !  "  sighed  Madame  la  Roche. 

"  My  dear  Madame,  you  would  not  dream  of  keeping  sc 
much  capital  lying  idle." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  again  sighed  Madame  la  Roche,  "  but  I 
am  sorry  to  part  from  the  old  things.     I  was  used  to  them." 

Monsieur  Noiret  granted  the  force  of  the  argument,  but 
began  nevertheless  to  speculate  on  the  probable  value  of  an 
ebony  cabinet,  and  the  very  same  day  brought  a  dealer  to 
inspect  it.  The  cabinet  produced  a  sum  that  partly  reconciled 
Madame  la  Roche  to  its  loss ;  blit  when  day  after  day  she 
saw  the  old  familiar  rooms  despoiled  of  the  handsome  and 
substantial  furniture  that  had  adorned  them  so  long  ;  when 
Dresden,  Sevres,  and  Indian  china  vanished  from  buhl  and 
marqueterie  stands  and  tables, — when  these  too,  took  their 
leave,  with  pictures  and  family  plate  no  longer  to  be  hoarded 
up  with  gentle  family  pride,  the  pang  became  so  severe,  that 
with  something  like  energy  she  said  : 

"  I  must  go.  Monsieur  Noiret ;  I  must,  before  all  is  gone. 
I  cannot  stay  till  the  rooms  are  bare.     I  must  go." 

But  where  to  go  to  was  the  question.  The  cook  and 
coachman  had  both  left,  shedding  tears ;  but  the  child,  Fanny, 
Marie,  and  Charlotte  had  remained  to  share  the  fortunes  and 
the  home,  such  as  it  might  be,  of  Madame  la  Roche.  To  find 
a  home  for  those  three  persons,  besides  herself  and  the  child, 
was  no  easy  task  ;  and  yet  separation  was  not  to  be  thought 
of.  Marie  boldly  scouted  the  mere  suggestion  that  her  mis- 
tress could  do  without  her.  "  Madame  is  hepless,"  she  said, 
"  helpless  as  a  baby."  Marie  did  not  add,  "  and  I,  Marie, 
am  strong  yet  and  able  to  work  for  my  old  mistress."  She 
kept  these  thoughts  in  her  own  heart,  and  so  naturally  did 
they  spring,  that  maybe  Marie  scarcely  knew  they  were  there. 
Charlotte  was  in  reality  as  devoted  to  her  mistress  as  her  old 
fellow-servant,  but  she  viewed  matters  differently.  To  every 
one,  save  Madame  la  Roche,  Charlotte,  the  savings  of  whose 
lifetime  had  perished  in  the  catastrophe,  called  Monsieur 
Dupuis  a  swindler,  and  wound  up  the  account  of  her  wrongs, 
which  were  but  too  real,  by  declaring  that  Madame  la  Roche 
was  bound  in  duty  and  honour  to  take  care  of  her.  She 
rather  perversely  omitted  saying  how  one,  who  could  not  take 
care  of  herself,  was  to  take  care  of  others.  This  view  of  the 
subject  Charlotte  discarded.  Yet,  in  the  main,  she  came  tc 
the  same  resolve  with  Marie.  She  would  live  and  die  with 
her  dear  mistress. 

Fanny  said  least  and  felt  most ;    grave,  thoughtful,  and 


SEVEN"    TEARS.  85 

sad,  she  kept  her  thoughts  and  projects  locked  in  her  own 
heart.  When  she  spoke  of  the  liiture,  she  ever  used  the 
significant  pronoun  "  we,"  tliat  bound  her  destiny  with  that 
of  her  kind  protectress.  Both  she  and  Marie  saw  the  case 
more  clearly  than  Charlotte  ;  like  Charlotte,  indeed,  they  were 
fully  resolved  to  live  and  die  with  Madame  la  Roche,  but  with 
a  full  consciousness  of  the  burden  that  was  falling  on  the 
youth  of  one  and  on  the  age  of  the  other, 

Madame  la  Roche  was  the  last  of  her  family  ;  her  son-in- 
law  was  the  native  of  a  remote  province,  whence  he  had  come 
to  Paris,  obscure  and  poor.  Save  his  aged  grand-mother, 
Charles  Dupuis  had  no  one,  and,  save  a  young  girl  and  two 
old  servants,  she  was  friendless.  Monsieur  Noiret  was  willing 
enough  to  oblige  Madame  la  Roche  by  helping  her  to  dispose 
of  her  furniture  to  the  best  advantage,  but  Avhen  she  spoke  of 
seeking  a  new  home  he  politely  acquiesced,  without  offering 
to  assist  her  in  a  search  that  might  have  committed  him  in 
some  degree  to  future  help. 

It  was  Fanny  who,  of  her  owm  accord,  took  the  lead, — found 
a  little  apartment  at  some  distance  from  their  present  dwell- 
ing,— had  a  few  articles  of  Madame  la  Roche's  furniture 
transferred  to  it,  and  who,  in  short,  did  what  was  to  be  done, 
and  saw  to  everything. 

Thanks  to  her  exertions,  and  something  like  a  fortnight 
after  the  house  had  passed  into  the  hands  of  its  new  owner, 
Madame  la  Roche  could  rise  one  morning  and  say,  "  Well,  let 
us  go." 

It  was  a  cold  dreary  morning  :  a  leaden  sky  hung 
over  Paris  :  a  thin  white  snow  w-as  falling ;  it  whitened  the 
roofs  of  houses,  and  became  converted  into  grey  mud  on  the 
street  pavement ;  but  the  quiet  paths  of  Madanie  la  Roche's 
little  gai'den  were  unsullied.  The  snow  had  gathered  over 
them  all  night,  and  no  foot-print  had  stained  its  whiteness. 
Snow  lay  on  the  roof  of  the  little  aviary,  empty  of  its  once 
gay  tenants ;  snow  had  replaced  the  roses  of  the  bosquet,  be- 
neath wdiich  Madame  la  Roche  liked  to  sit ;  snow  toviched 
with  white  streaks  the  bare  branches  and  slender  trunks  of 
the  laburnums  and  lilacs  Fanny  loved.  Every  favourite  spot, 
every  pleasant  memorial  of  the  past,  wore  the  same  death- 
like hue,  the  same  lunereal  shroud. 

Yet  with  a  restlessness  not  habitual  to  her,  Madame  la 
Roche,  spite  the  snow  that  fell  above  and  that  lay  cold  below, 
would  enter  that  little  garden  again,  walk  over  every  inch  of 
it,  and  bid  all  farewell. 


86  SEVEN    YEAK8. 

"  1  liked  it  so  much  !  "  she  said  to  Fanny,  who  accom 
panied  and  supported  her,  "  it  was  my  Versailles,  my  St. 
Cloud.  I  envied  no  one  their  parks  and  gardens, — this  little 
place  was  as  much  to  me  as  theirs  to  them.  Not  that  it  was 
so  very  little,  Fanny,  was  it  1  For  there  are  the  four  paths 
that  wind  and  meet  and  divide,  so  that  you  might  spend  an 
hour  in  following  them  out ;  then  there  is  the  bosquet,  and 
the  basin,  and  the  aviary.  Ah  !  well,  Fanny,  they  may  say 
what  they  like,  and  laugh  at  it — I  say  it  is  a  pleasant  place, 
and  that  to  sit  in  that  bosquet,  with  the  roses  above  your 
head,  and  the  birds  singing,  and  the  water  splashing,  is  as 
pleasant  a  thing  as  one  can  wish  for  on  a  summer's  day.  Ah  ! 
well,  it  is  all  over ;  we  need  not  set  honey-suckle  next  year, 
nor  put  up  a  trellis  that  Bapiiste  may  not  look  at  you.  It  is 
all  over,  nnd  I  am  but  an  old  simpleton  to  stand  dreaming 
here  of  old  pleasures  and  old  times,  without  thinking  that  this 
same  snow  is  falling  on  my  poor  child's  grave;  would  it  fell 
on  mine,  Fanny,  would  it  fell  on  mine  !  " 

Tears  flowed  down  her  withered  cheeks,  and  her  hands 
trembled  as  she  clasped  them. 

"  And  what  would  the  poor  child  do  without  you  1 "  asked 
Fanny,  gently.  But  Madame  la  Eoche  shook  her  head  des- 
pondently. 

"  Of  what  use  am  I  to  him,  or  to  any  one  ?  "  she  asked ; 
and  without  waiting  for  the  reply,  she  added,  "  let  us  go.  I 
am  keeping  you  here  in  the  cold,  and  what  for  ?  old  dreams, 
old  thoughts,  and  what  for  !  " 

They  re-entered  the  house,  they  crossed  the  rooms  more 
than  half  stripped  of  their  contents  ;  a  few  minutes  more,  they 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  apartment.  Charlotte  led  the 
child  by  the  hand ;  Marie,  laden  with  umbrellas  and  boxes, 
was  going  down-stairs,  grumbling. 

"  Shut  the  door,  child,  and  give  the  key  to  Madame  Grand," 
said  Madame  la  Roche,  and  she  too  went  down  to  the  fiacre 
waiting  for  them  below. 

Madame  Grand  was  considerably  affected  at  the  departure 
of  her  old  mistress.  She  was  even  more  profuse  in  her  ex- 
pressions of  regret  than  Madame  la  Roche — little  used  to 
compassion  implied  or  spoken — could  well  bear.  She  shrank 
from  it  with  a  fastidious  sensitiveness,  for  which  she  internally 
checked  herself,  and  which  she  so  far  conquered  outwardly  as 
to  say  : 

"  1  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Madame  Grand."  But 
with  a  little  touch  of  consequence  she  added  : 


SEVEN    YEAK8.  87 

"  You  have  always  been  a  faithful  domestic.     Good  bye; 
I  have  recommended  you  to  the  new  landlord." 

That  she  should  be  recommended  by  any  one,  and  especial- 
ly by  so  fallen  a  person  as  Madame  la  Roche,  seemed  to  strike 
Madame  Grand  dumb.  She  stared  amazed,  whilst  ]\ladame 
la  Roche  passed  on,  entered  the  fiacre,  took  Charles  on  her 
knees,  and  was  followed  by  Fanny  and  Charlotte,  leaving 
Marie  behind  to  fight  a  dire  battle  with  the  coachman,  who 
declared  that  all  the  packages  he  saw  could  not  and  should  not 
enter  his  vehicle.  After  a  short  and  fierce  contest,  the  coach- 
man was  conquered  ;  Marie  entered  the  fiacre  exulting  and 
dragging  her  property  after  her  and  the  carriage  drove  slowly 
away. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

The  fiacre  stopped  before  a  poor,  mean-looking  house,  in  a 
narrow  and  not  over  clean  street. 

"  It  looks  worse  because  this  is  such  a  bad  day,"  said  Fan- 
ny, looking  wistfully  at  Madame  la  Roche. 

"  My  dear,  it  will  do  ;  let  us  be  thankful  for  the  shelter 
of  a  roof." 

"  Thankfnl  for  the  shelter  of  a  roof,"  querulously  put  in 
Charlotte,  whose  temper  followed  the  variations  of  her  rheu- 
matism ;  "  I  suppose  Madame  would  be  thankful  if  we  were 
put  under  a  shed  like  horses."  Ah  !  well,  I  have  told  Monica 
she  would  repent  the  day  she  went  to  America ;  but  maybe 
it  is  I  shall  repent  the  day  I  stayed  in  Paris." 

This  last  remark,  however,  was  more  muttered  than  spoken, 
and  was  not  heard  or  heeded  by  Madame  la  Roche,  whom 
Fanny  assisted  to  alight,  and  who,  giving  the  dull  dirty-look- 
ing house  and  the  gloomy  porter's  lodge  a  half  frightened  look, 
clung  to  the  young  girl's  arm,  as  a  male  head,  with  a  cotton 
handkerchief  tied  around  it,  and  a  grisly  beard  by  way  of 
adornment,  looked  out  of  the  dark  cave-like  opening,  and 
growled  more  than  asked  : 

"  What  do  you  want  1 " 

"  "VVe  are  the  new  lodgers,"  replied  Fanny. 

"  And  you  must  needs  come  in  a  fiacre,  eh  1  why  not 
walk,  too  grand,  eh  1  well,  then,  let  me  tell  you  this  is  no 
place  for  grandeur,"  with  which  the  head  vanished,  and  a  ham- 
mei'ing  was  heard  within. 

"  is  that  the  porter  ?  "  asked  Madame  la  Roche,  in  a 
whisper. 


88  SEVEN    YEARS. 

"  Yes,  madame,  but  do  not  mind  him  ;  I  am  sure  he  is  a 
good-natured  man,  though  he  grumbles  so  ;  he  helped  me  to 
carry  up  half  the  things,  and  left  his  work — he  is  a  shoemaker 
— to  do  it,  and  he  grumbled  the  whole  way.     It  is  his  way." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  his  way,"  sighed  Madame  la  Roche, 
and  catching  a  glimpse  of  a  yard  like  a  well,  she  went  up  the 
steep  staircase,  learning  the  pain  and  bitterness  of  new  ways 
at  every  step  of  the  four  floors  that  led  her  to  her  new  homec 

She  was  pale  and  exhausted  by  the  time  they  stopped  be- 
foi*e  a  narrow  wooden  door,  very  unlike  the  handsome  mas- 
sive entrance  of  her  old  abode.  Fanny  took  a  rusty  key 
from  her  pocket,  opened  the  door,  and  led  Madame  la  Roche 
into  a  square  room,  wdiere  a  deal  table  and  a  few  chairs  made 
a  poor  show. 

"  This  is  our  sitting  room,  kitchen,  and  dining-room,"  said 
Fanny,  passing  hastily  through  it, — "  and  this  is  Charlotte  and 
Marie's  room,"  she  said — entering  a  double-bedded  room 
scarcely  better  furnished, — "  and  this  is  your  room,"  she  ad- 
ded, pushing  open  a  door,  and  leading  the  way  into  a  room, 
which,  though  small,  was  a  dainty  little  boudoir  when  com- 
pared to  the  other  two. 

A  pretty  paper  covered  the  walls ;  clean  white  curtains 
half  hid  Madame  la  Roche's  bed,  the  very  same  in  which  she 
had  slept  for  fifty  years  and  more ;  the  little  crib  of  Charles 
was  placed  near  it ;  there  was  a  carpet  on  the  floor  ;  opposite 
the  fire-place,  in  which  a  bright  fire  burned  cheerfidly,  Madame 
la  Roche  recognised  a  little  rose-wood  commode,  that  had 
always  been  a  great  favourite  of  hers.  A  glass  and  time-piece 
adorned  the  mantle  piece,  and  by  the  fire  her  own  favourite 
chair  and  stool  seemed  to  await  h-er. 

"  My  dear,  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  "  said  Madame  la 
Roche,  much  moved.     "  This  is  not  right." 

"  Not  right !  "  put  in  Marie,  who  came  up  sturdy  as  ever, 
though  somewhat  short  of  breath,  "  not  right !  I  say  it  is  all 
as  it  should  be.     Eh  !  Charlotte  1  " 

"  Madame  has  been  used  to  conveniences,  and  Madame 
must  have  them,  come  what  will,"  said  Charlotte,  gravely. 

'•  But  your  rooms,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  sighing,  "  why 
should  they  be  so  bare  and  so  cold  1 " 

"  We  like  them  so,"  curtly  replied  Marie  ;  "  and  there  is 
one  comfort,"  she  added,  nodding  her  lofty  cap,  which  reverses 
of  fortune  had  not  induced  her  to  relinquish,  "  there  is  one 
comfort  too,  I  told  that  coachman  a  bit  of  my  mind  before  we 
parted." 


SEVEN    TEAES.  89 

"  And  where  do  you  sleep,  Fanny  l  "  asked  Madame  la 
Roche,  suddenly  remembering  that  she  had  seen  no  provisions 
for  the  young  girl. 

"  In  a  closet, — oh,  it  is  all  right,"  hastily  replied  Fanny ; 
and  she  at  once  engaged  the  attention  of  Charles  by  giving 
him  his  toys,  -which  lie  was  rather  clamorously  claiming,  and 
diverted  the  mind  of  Madame  la  Roche  from  all  present  topics 
by  calling  her  to  look  at  a  cage  suspended  in  the  window,  and 
which  held  a  superannuated  canary,  the  only  one  Madame  la 
Roche  had  consented  to  keep. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  she  sighed,  "  he  is  old  and  useless,  like 
me,"  and  she  sank  in  the  arm-chair,  whilst  Fanny  amused  the 
child,  and  Charlotte  and  Marie  made  preparations  for  luncheon. 
Madame  la  Roche  looked  on  sad  and  troubled,  but  did  not 
dream  of  offering  help,  which  would  indeed  have  been  indig- 
nantly rejected. 

Wealth  and  ease  have  their  moral  disadvantages  even  for 
the  best  and  the  wisest.  Madame  la  Roche  was  accustomed 
to  be  waited  on,  and  she  could  not  relinquish  the  habit  at 
once.  She  was  accustomed  that  others  should  be  busy,  whilst 
she  sat  idle  and  looked  on,  a  habit  of  indolence  which  her 
years  had  rendered  a  second  nature,  and  of  which  she  was  her- 
self scarcely  conscious.  Loolcing  round  her  warm  and  com- 
fortable room,  she  soon  forgot  that  the  other  rooms  were 
rather  chill  and  bare,  and  sitting  in  her  easy  chair,  she  did  not 
remember  that  the  two  old  servants  and  the  young  girl,  who 
had  united  their  destiny  to  her  own,  were  not — though  of  more 
active  habits — much  more  used  to  hard  and  coarse  work  than 
Madame  la  Roche  herself. 

Luncheon  was  soon  ready.  Marie  cooked  it,  and  perform- 
ed prodigies  ;  Fanny  brought  it  in,  for  Madame  la  Roche  was 
served  in  her  own  room,  a  stateliness  against  which  she  pro- 
tested in  vain.  The  meal,  a  plain  one  after  all,  for  it  consisted 
merely  of  a  cotelette  au  gratin,  with  two  potatoes  for  the  plat 
au  legumes,  and  a  solitary  apple  for  the  dessert,  was  scarcely 
begun,  when  a  ring  announced  a  visitor,  and  Fanny,  who 
aswered  it,  admitted  Monsieur  Noiret. 

Monsieur  Noiret  was,  as  usual,  in  good  spirits, — he  joked 
with  Marie,  he  pinched  Fanny's  cheek,  he  patted  the  head  of 
Charles,  who  eyed  him  askance,  and  looking  benevolently  at 
Madame  la  Roche,  at  the  bright  fire  by  which  she  sat,  at  the 
pleasant  little  room,  at  the  comfortable  meal  on  the  table. 
Monsieur  Noiret  exclaimed  cheerfully  : 


90  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

"  Why,  this  is  all  as  it  should  be  !  I  congratulate  you,  my 
dear  friend,  on  the  pleasant  home  you  have  found." 

Madame  la  Roche  laid  down  the  bit  she  was  carrying  tc 
her  mouth  :  the  word  home  brought  with  it  rememlaranceg 
still  too  fresh  and  too  trying ;  but  though  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes,  she  compelled  herself  to  reply  :  "  God  is  very  good  to 
me,  I  am  very  thankful." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  still  cheer- 
ful. ''  By  the  way,  I  am  going  to  the  country,  and  bef()re 
going,  I  called  to  settle  some  little  matters  with  you.  Do  you 
know,  I  think  that  the  sum-total  brought  in  by  your  furniture 
will  bring  you  in  no  less  than  four  hundred  francs  a  year. 
Very  handsome,  is  it  not?  Of  course  it  would  bring  in  more 
if  you  would  have  an  annuity,  but  then  that  would  die  with 
you,  and  there  would  be  nothing  left  for  that  fine  little  fellow. 
Well,  what  do  you  say  to  that  1  Shall  I  send  my  homme 
d'affaires  to  manage  that  for  you  1  1  am  going  to  the  country, 
otherwise  I  should  be  most  happy  to  take  the  whole  charge  of 
this  little  business." 

"  As  you  like,  if  you  please,"  said  Madame  la  Roche.  "  T 
am  very  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  Do  not  mention  it,"  replied  Monsieur  Noiret  rising, 
"  you  are  highly  welcome,  and  do  not  stir,  I  beg.  I  am 
rather  in  a  hurry  on  account  of  going  into  the  country,  else  J 
should  not  leave  you  so  early." 

And  gracious  and  buoyant  as  ever,  Monsieur  Noiret  de- 
parted. 

"  Going  into  the  country,"  grumbled  Marie,  as  the  door 
closed  upon  him  ;  "  ay,  ay,  we  know  what  that  means.  Mind 
my  words,  Charlotte,  Monsieur  Noiret  will  come  no  more." 

'•  Madame  is  in  want  of  no  one,  friend  or  foe,"  said  Char- 
lotte, witli  much  dignity. 

"  I  never  before  heard  that  people  were  in  want  of  ene- 
mies," sharply  said  Marie. 

"  Nor  I,"  composedly  replied  Charlotte,  "  so,  if  you  please, 
we  will  say  no  more  about  it." 

The  invitation  not  to  speak  was  one  which  Marie  always 
particularly  resented,  and  which  would  probably  have  led  to 
some  bitter  altercation,  if  Fanny,  issuing  from  Madame  la 
Roche's  room,  had  not  appeared,  holding  up  her  fore-finger  in 
a  warning  attitude.     "  Madame  is  sleeping,"  she  said  softly. 

"  Poor  dear,"  sighed  Charlotte,  "  she  has  not  slept  this 
many  a  night.  I  hope  no  one  will  have  the  heard-heartedness 
to  waken  her." 


SEVEN    TEARS.  91 

Marie  felt  the  implied  insult,  but  had  virtue  enough  tc 
resist  the  provocation  and  keep  her  peace. 

Monsieur  Noiret,  being  in  the  country,  could  not  call  any 
more ;  but  his  solicitor  came,  an  honest  man,  and  one  of  few 
words,  who  speedily  put  Madame  la  Roche  in  possession  of 
her  new  income,  amounting  to  four  hundred  francs,  as  Mon- 
sieur Noiret  had  announced.  When  this  matter  was  satisfac- 
torily settled  the  solicitor  withdrew,  and,  like  Monsieur  Noiret, 
was  seen  no  more. 

"  Four  hundred  francs  a  year,"  said  Madame  la  Roche  to 
her  little  assembled  family  ;  "  it  does  not  seem  much,  and  yet 
it  is  pleasant  to  have  something  left,  though  but  a  mite." 

"  Let  not  Madame  inind,"  stoutly  said  Marie,  "  we  can 
work,  and  we  will,  too.  I  can  earn  twenty  francs  a  month, 
which  makes  two  hundred  and  forty  francs  a  year." 

"  And  I  can  earn  two  francs  a  day,"  said  Fanny,  "  which 
makes  seven  hundred  and  twenty  fraucs  a  year.  If  Madame 
adds  that  to  four  hundred  and  two  hundred  and  forty,  she  will 
find  it  makes  quite  a  pretty  income." 

"  Why,  so  it  does  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  la  Roche,  dazzled 
at  this  miexpected  vision  of  prosperity  ;  '•  thirteen  hundred 
and  sixty  francs  a  year.     Quite  a  large  sum." 

"  Quite,  "  said  Fanny,  gaily,  "  aud  therefore  Madame  is  to 
take  no  thought,  no  care,  and  no  trouble,  but  leave  us  to 
manage  all." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  how  you  are  going  to  manage 
all  those  fine  things,  "  rather  tartly  asked  Charlotte,  as  soon 
as  they  were  withdrawn  from  Madame  la  Roche's  presence. 

"  God  knows  !  "  replied  Fanny,  suddenly  despondent ; 
"  but  yet  it  must  be  done." 

"  Ay,  ay,  it  must  be  done,  "  said  Marie. 

"  If  that  bad  man  had  not  taken  away  all  my  poor  savings," 
sighed  Charlotte,  "  I  could  now  live  like  a  lady." 

"  I  wonder  you  think  of  yourself  when  a  real  lady  like 
Madame  is  I'educed  to  four  hundred  francs  a  year,"  hotly  said 
Marie.      "  I  wonder.  " 

"  And  I  wonder  you  cannot  leave  oif  quarrelling,  "  inter- 
rupted Fanny ;  "  doors  and  walls  are  thin,  and  suppose  Ma- 
dame should  hear  you  ?  " 

This  suggestion  eifcctually  secured  silence. 


92  SEVEN    YEARS. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MoNSiEUK  NoiRET  kept  up  the  polite  and  convenient  fic- 
tion of  being  in  the  country. 

He  probably  conceived  "that  he  was  not  called  upon  to  do 
any  more  for  Madame  la  Roche  than  he  had  done  ;  it  may  be 
too,  that  he  thought  he  had  done  plenty,  for  he  ceased  his  visits 
and  allowed  his  old  friend  to  shift  for  herself,  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

Baptiste,  who  had  kept  in  the  back-ground,  now  came  for- 
ward and  quietly  did  his  best. 

"  If  Madame  will  allow  me,"  he  said,  respectfully  address- 
ing Madame  la  Roche,  "  I  think  I  can  improve  matters  a 
little.     Upholsterers  have  experience  in  these  things." 

Madame  la  Roche  thanked  him,  and  gave  him  full  autho- 
rity to  act  as  he  pleased.  So  because  he  was  an  upholsterer, 
and  had  experience  in  those  things,  Baptiste  began  making 
some  wonderful  changes.  He  first  of  all  discovered  that  his 
shop  was  full  of  useless  furniture.  A  little  chintz  sofa,  which 
had  found  no  purchaser,  an  easy  chair,  stools,  carpets,  curtains, 
all  equally  useless  to  him,  were  quickly  transferr-^d  from  his 
shop  to  the  apartment  of  Madame  la  Roche.  The  change  was 
too  great  not  to  strike  her  ;  still,  not  being  of  a  suspicious  turn 
or  temper,  she  only  marvelled  a  little,  then  demurred  gently  : 

"  Baptiste  you  are  doing  too  much,  "  she  said.  "  I  cannot 
allow  it.     Some  of  that  furniture  must  be  useful  to  you." 

"  I  shall  put  nothing  more,  Madame,  "  replied  Baptiste, 
who  h;id  done  by  this,  and  had  only  a  few  more  pictures  to 
hang  up. 

His  conduct  was  variously  commented  upon  in  the  little 
circle.  Madame  la  Roche  was  moved  by  the  kindness,  but  she 
had  been  too  long  used  to  money  to  feel  the  value  of  Baptiste's 
conduct.  Charlotte,  whom  he  had  unfortunately  offended  by 
an  illusion  to  selfishness,  wiiich  she  unluckily  took  as  a  per- 
sonal reflection,  querulously  declared  the  young  man  was  good, 
but  conceited,  and  especially  overrated.  Marie  grumbled  loud, 
and  darted  fiery  suspicious  looks  at  him,  Fanny  said  nothing, 
but  Baptiste  uneasily  noticed  that  her  own  brown  eyes  rested 
on  him  with  a  sad  lingering  expression.  He  never  questioned 
her  ;  he  never  asked  why  she  looked  so,  or  what  ailed  her  ;  he 
went  on  with  his  scdf-imposed  task,  sturdily  resolved  en  an  end 
which  he  kept  to  himself. 

In  the  mean  while  Miirie  went  out  as  a  day-servant  in  a 


SEVEN    TEARS.  93 

quiet  family  close  by  ;  Fanny  had  resumed  her  occupation  as 
a  dressmaker  ;  Charlotte  took  care  of  Charles,  the  only  thing 
she  was  fit  for,  and  Madame  la  Roche  did  nothing  :  to  do 
nothing  had  unfortunately  been  the  occupation  of  her  whole 
lifetime. 

Madame  la  Koche  was  not  what  might  be  called  a  selfish 
woman. 

Her  own  comfort  and  happiness  were  not  and  had  not  been 
her  only  aim  in  life,  but  it  had  so  happened,  that  she  had  had 
no  other  great  object  to  engross  her  attention,  and  that  she  had 
taken  a  habit  of  being  comfortable,  easy,  indolent,  and  helpless, 
like  many  a  moneyed  lady.  Sacrifices  she  did  not  take  for 
granted,  but  she  was  not  always  conscious  of  them.  She  soon 
forgot  that  Baptiste's  furniture  filled  her  rooms,  it  seemed  so 
natural  to  have  things  comfortable.  She  did  not  dwell  long  on 
the  hardship  of  Marie  and  Fanny  having  to  support  her  and 
her  grand-child.  Siie  had  always  seen  them  busy;  they  did 
not  mind  working,  and  it  seemed  so  like  as  things  should  be, 
that  want  should  not  come  near  her.  That  she  might  ever  be 
cold  or  hungry  was  more  than  Madame  la  Roche  could  possibly 
conceive. 

Thus  a  few  weeks  had  passed.  The  day  had  been  cold, 
though  fine  ;  it  was  freezing  now,  and  Madame  la  Roche,  her 
two  old  servants,  Fanny,  and  the  i;liild,  were  gathered  in  the 
front  room,  and  around  one  light  and  one  fire.  Poverty  had 
levelled  distinctions,  and  broken  down  barriers  that  had  never 
been  very  potent. 

Madame  la  Roche  sat  in  the  ea-y  chair  worked  by  Fanny. 
Baptiste  had  bought  it  back  at  the  sale,  for  the  use  of  the 
young  girl's  protectress.  Placid  and  settled  grief  was  in  her 
features.  She  sat,  as  of  old,  with  her  hands  on  her  knees. 
She  was  watching  her  little  grand-child,  who,  nestled  on 
Fanny's  lap,  was  learning  his  Jetters  from  a  large  spelling- 
book.  Mane  was  sewing  vigorously  by  the  light  of  a  tallow 
candle,  and  Charlotte,  groanir.g  with  rheumatic  pains,  that 
prevented  her  from  stirripg  out  of  her  arm-chair, — another 
gift  of  the  provident  Baptiste, — was  holding  a  mild  argument 
with  her  usual  antagonist.  To  Fanny's  annoyance  they  were 
talking  of  Baptiste. 

"  I  never  liked  him,"  said  Marie,  strongly,  "  and  when  I 
do  not  like,  why  I  do  not ;  but  I  do  say  that  he  has  behaved 
well." 

"  Baptiste  has  been  very  kind,"  sighed  Madame  la  Roche. 


94  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

"  Very,"  resumed  Marie,  "  hut  I  do  say  it  is  time  he 
should  leave  it  off." 

"  He  really  has  done  enough,"  interrupted  Madame  la 
Roche. 

"  Leave  off  coming  here,"  pursued  Marie,  "  what  does  he 
want  ?     It  is  loss  of  time  to  him,  and  no  gain  to  us," 

"  The  young  man  is  not  understood,"  >said  Charlotte,  in  a 
mild  tone  of  voice  that  implied  she  would  set  both  right ;  "  he 
is  conceited,  neither  more  nor  less." 

"  Poor  Baptiste  !  "  ejaculated  Fanny,  but    she  spoke  low, 
and  no  one  heard  her. 

"  The  young  man  is  conceited,"  repeated  Charlotte  ;  "  he 
has  an  exaggerated  opinion  of  his  own  importance,  but  he 
is  not  amiss." 

"  He  has  behaved  very  well,"  said  Marie,  significantly 
glancing  at  Charlotte's  easy  chair,  and  at  the  comfortable 
stool  under  her  feet,  "  and  when  one  knows  how  to  manage 
him,  one  can  get  anything  out  of  Baptiste.  But,  thank 
Heaven,  my  spirit  always  was  above  that." 

Charlotte  acknowledged  the  taunt  with  a  smile  and 
merely  replied  : 

"  Baptiste  has  good  points,  and  can  be  taught  his  place. 
A  knowledge  much  older  persons  do  not  always  arrive  at." 

A  severe  answer  rose  to  Marie's  lips,  but  charity  checked 
it.  She  remembered  that  Charlotte  was  a  useless  member 
of  their  little  household,  and  compassionate  delicacy  silenced 
the  reproving  words,  to  which  the  tlesh  would  fain  give  vent. 
She  took  a  lofty  air,  that  implied :  "  I  could  crush  you 
but  I  will  not,"  and  sewed  on  with  renewed  vigour. 

A  ring  at  the  door  was  heard. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  Baptiste,"  snappishly  said  Marie,  "  at 
this  hour,  too  !  I  marvel  at  him  ;  stay  where  you  are,  Fanny, 
I  shall  go  and  open." 

Fanny,  who  had  half  risen,  sat  down  again,  and  Marie 
opened  the  door  of  the  room  where  they  were  sitting,  and 
which  was  also  the  first  that  a  visitor  must  needs  enter. 

Baptiste  appeared  on  the  threshold,  carefully  holding 
a  picture,  an  old  family  portrait  which  he  had  undertaken 
to  frame  anew  with  a  frame  in  his  shop,  '*  quite  useless  to 
him,"  and  which  he  now  brought  back  to  Madame  la  Roche. 

She  received  him  with  her  usual  kindness,  thanked  him  for 
the  trouble  he  had  taken,  and  made  him  sit  down  by  her. 
Baptiste  replied  rather  at  random  ;  he  was  watching  Fanny, 
who  scarcely  minded  him.  and  was  still  engrossed  with  the 


SEVEN    TEAKS. 


95 


child.  The  calm  repelling  looks  of  Charlotte,  or  the  stern 
forbidding  glances  of  Marie,  both  of  which  said :  "  what 
brings  you  here  ?"  Baptiste  did  not  mind,  although  he  un- 
consciously answered  the  question  they  conveyed. 

"  Madame."' said  he,  addressing  Madame  la  Roche,  "  I  hope 
you  will  not  think  me  troublesome,  if  I  mention  a  matter 
relative  to  myself,  and  solicit  your  kind  attention." 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  Madame  la  Koche,  "certainly 
not,  Baptiste;  you  have  a  right  to  talk  about  yourself;  for 
it  seems  to  bo  a  thing  you  never  do.  Indeed,  I  fancy  you 
think  a  great  deal  too  much  about  others.  Do  you  know,  it  is 
quite  a  nice  frame  you  have  put  around  the  portrait  of  my 
dear  grandmother." 

"  It  was  lyii'.g  all  but  useless  in  my  shop,"  muttei-ed  Bap- 
tiste. 

"I   am  sorry  to   hear  that,"  musingly   replied  ^Madame  la 
Roche ;   "  I    fear   your   business   is   not    quite    thriving    just 


now." 


Oh  yes,  it  is,"  he  rather  quickly  answered  ;  "  I  am  doing 
very  well,  Madame." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  she  placidly  rejoined,  "  but  I 
thought  the  reverse,  from  the  number  of  useless  things  you 
had  lying  on  your  hands.  And  what  was  it  you  wanted  to 
say,  Baptiste  ?" 

The  voice  of  Baptiste  stuck  in  his  throat,  he  looked  at 
Fanny,  who  turned  red  and  pale,  and  he  was  going  to  sjwak, 
when  Marie,  laying  down  her  work,  observed  calmly  : 

"  Of  course.  Monsieur  Baptiste,  all  that  nonsense  is  over — 
for  a  time  at  least,"  she  added,  hesitatingly. 

"  But  I  was  to  have  married  Fanny  in  another  day,"  urged 
Baptiste,  rather  earnestly. 

Madame  la  Ptoche  sank  back  in  her  chair  and  wept  slowly. 
Marie  audibly  uttered  the  word  "  wretch." 

Baptiste  heard  her  with  more  amazement  than  wrath,  and 
as  he  had  one  of  those  slow  pertinacious  tempers,  which  are 
not  easily  disconcerted,  he  waited  until  Madame  la  Roche 
gently  wiped  her  eyes,  to  resume  calmly  : 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  grieved  Madame,  I  was  far  from  sup- 
posing that  I  should  do  so." 

"  It  is  no  fault  of  yours,  Baptiste,"  gently  said  3Iadame  la 
Roche ;  "  I  am  nervous,  aod  cannot  think  calmly  of  that  sad 
day.  But  really,  Baptiste,  with  the  people  leaving  all  those 
things   on   your   hands, — frames,  tables,   and   even  sofas  and 


96  SEVEN    YEARS. 

chairs, — I  cannot  think  your  business  to  be  a  flourishing  one, 
or  such  as  will  allow  you  to  marry." 

Baptiste  looked  disconcerted  at  the  argument,  but  he  soon 
rallied,  and  assured  Madame  la  Roche  his  circumstances  were 
good. 

"  Well,  but  you  know  I  cannot  give  Fanny  those  fifteen 
hundred  francs  which  I  had  promised,"  she  resumed,  "  and 
that  makes  a  great  difference." 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,  Madame,  but  though  the  fifteen  hun- 
dred francs  would  have  been  welcome,  I  can  do  without  them. 
My  plan  is  this,"  he  resumed  :  to  "  marry  Fanny,  and  to  ask 
Madame,  her  godmother,"  he  added,  looking  at  Charlotte,  "  to 
live  with  us." 

By  ridding  Madame  la  Roche  and  Marie  of  a  useless 
member  of  their  family,  Baptiste  thought  to  atone  for  the  loss 
he  must  make  them  sustain  in  depriving  them  of  Fanny's 
services  and  earnings.  But  the  plao,  though  excellent,  was 
destined  to  meet  with  unqualified  opposition  from  two  influ- 
ential persons.  Marie  opposed  it  because  she  had  not  sug- 
gested it,  or  had  not  been  consulted  about  it ;  Charlotte, 
because  she  held  it  as  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  premedi- 
tated affront  to  her  dignity. 

"  Young  man,"  she  said  with  a  lofty  wave  of  the  hand, 
"  know  your  place,  knov/  your  place,  My  place,"  she  added, 
looking  hard  and  nodding  at  Marie,  "  my  place  is  here,  and 
nowhere  else." 

"  Monsieur  Baptiste,"  sharply  said  Marie,  "  I  have  plenty 
wherewith  to  try  my  temper;  plenty,  I  assure  you  ;  you  will 
oblige  me  by  not  briugiug  a  iiornet's  nest  about  my  ears. 
As  for  your  proposal  to  marry  Fanny,  it  is  absurd,  quite  ab- 
surd." 

"  No,  no,"  gently  sio-hed  Madame  la  Roche,  "  not  absurd ; 
but  still,  Baptiste,  do  you  not  think  it  might  be  put  ofl"  ? 
Surely  there  is  plenty  of  time  for  marriage  ?  " 

Baptiste  looked  at  the  three  women,  i'erhaps  he  thought 
this  but  a  poor  return  for  some  kinduess,  but,  without  liugci'- 
ing  on  this  thought,  he  turned  to  Fanny.  She  sat  by  the  tire, 
her  head  leaning  against  the  mantel-shelf,  silent  tears  slowly 
coursing  down  her  pale  cheeks.  The  child  still  sat  on  her 
knees,  and  looked  at  her  wondering.  Baptiste  felt  hurt,  he 
rose. 

"  Fanny,"  he  said,  "  it  rests  with  you." 

Fanny  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  No,  Baptiste,"  she  said,  "  that  cannot  be." 


SEVEN    YEARS.  {J7 

"  Is  that  your  promise  ?  "  asked  Baptiste,  stung  to  the  very 
heart. 

She  did  not  reply.  He  looked  round  him,  and  said  Ijusk- 
ily  :  "  Good  night,  ladies."  Then  he  turned  away  and  left  the 
room  undetained. 

Baptiste  had  got  down  to  the  second  floor,  when  a  light 
hand  laid  on  his  arm  made  him  turn  round.  On  the  step  above 
him  he  saw  Fanny  with  tears  on  her  cheek. 

"  Oh  !  Baptiste,"  she  said  in  a  subdued  voice,  "  how  can 
you  leave  me  so  ?  Do  you  not  see  it  is  because  I  like  you  that 
I  will  not  marry  you  ?  You  do  not  know  what  it  would  be 
to  take  me  I  What  a  sad  burden  I  should  bring  with  me  ! 
Baptiste,  it  would  be  four  to  provide  for,  and  worse,  far  worse, 
believe  me — to  please." 

"I  will  bear  with  anything  to  have  you,"  said  Baptiste, 
taking  her  in  his  arms. 

"  And  I  like  you  too  well  to  have  you,"  said  Fanny,  hang- 
ing down  her  head. 

"  Fanny,  that  cannot  be,"  resumed  Baptiste,  "  that  cannot 
be.  Think  of  it  well, — it  is  parting  forever.  If  you  send  me 
away  thus,  I  will  not  seek  you  again,  Fanny." 

Pier  heart  failed  her  ;  her  head  swam,  her  hand  trembled 
in  his.  Baptiste  would  keep  to  his  word,  sturdily  and  stoutly 
he  would.  She  knew  it,  and  a  pang  like  that  of  death  seized 
her  whole  being. 

"  Baptiste,  is  that  our  parting  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  low  voice  ; 
"  can  we  not  part,  since  part  we  must,  like  two  friends  whom 
Providence   divides,  but  who  love  each  other  for  all  that '?  " 

"  No,"  said  Baptiste,  clasping  her  more  closely  ;  "  you 
are  my  wife,  Fanny,  or  you  are  not.  And  now,  Fanny,  if  you 
love  me,  now  is  the  time  to  show  it.      Will  3"ou  marry  me  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  your  ruin;  I  cannot,"  said  Fanny,  in  a  low 
faint  voice. 

"  Are  those  your  last  words  ?  "  asked  Baptiste,  releasing 
her. 

"  They  are,"  she  replied,  leaning  against  the  banisters  for 
Bupport. 

"  Then  good  night,  and  good  bye.      You  never  liked  me.' 

He  went  down,  and  did  not  look  back. 


98         .         SEVEN  YEAKS. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Fanny  went  up  like  one  stunned.  She  entered  tlie  room 
where  Madame  la  lloebe  and  the  two  old  servants  were  sitting, 
and  she  resumed  her  ehair,  without  uttering  a  word.  The 
three  looked  at  her,  feeling  rather  frightened  at  her  white 
face  ;  but  Faun}'  did  not  speak.  Madame  la  Roche  at  length 
said  : 

"  My  dear  child,  have  you  not  tried  yourself  too  far  ?  " 

To  which  Fanny  replied  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  Madame,  what  I  have  done  I  would  do  again." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Marie,  with  a  strength  of  look  and  ac- 
cent meant  to  veil  some  secret  uneasiness.  "  Fanny  has  too 
much  sense  not  to  know  this  is  no  time  for  marriage,  and  all 
such  follies." 

"  I  am  surprised  at  the  young  man's  extraordinary  pre- 
sumption," observed  Charlotte  ;  "  of  course  he  was  encouraged 
in,  as  well  as  advised  to,  his  recent  conduct ;  but  still  I  am 
surprised." 

"  May  I  request  to  know  what  you  mean  to  insinuate  by 
encouraged  and  advised  ?  "  asked  Marie,  laying  down  her 
work. 

"  I  really  cannot  allow  any  more  of  this,"  said  Madame  la 
Roche,  nervously  ;   "  it  is  late  ;  besides,  I  really  cannot." 

"  I  always  knew  Madame  took  Charlotte's  part,"  reproach- 
fully remarked  Marie,  "  always.  It  is  nothing  new  to  me, 
whatever  some  people  may  think." 

To  this  taunt  Charlotte  did  not  reply,  but  rising,  she 
piously  thanked  Heaven  that  she  knew  her  place,  that  she  had 
always  known  it,  and  that  no  one  had  ever  needed  to  remind 
her  of  the  necessity  of  keeping  her  place.  Marie  seemed  ex- 
asperated, and  Madame  la  Roche,  folding  her  hands,  looked 
piteous  and  imploring. 

"  Poor  Baptiste  !  "  thought  Fanny,  "  it  would  have  v 
,im  mad." 

Magnanimity  made  Marie  keep  silent,  but  when  Charlotte 
had  left  the  room  she  turned  to  Fanny  and  said  sharply  : 

"  I  trust  that  the  unfortunate  young  man,  who  lias  proved 
an  apple  of  discord,  will  not  come  here  in  a  hurry." 

"it  is  not  likely,"  replied  Fanny,  with   slight   bitterness 
"  he  is  no  longer  of  any  use,  why  should  he  come  here  V  " 

"  Fanny,  my  dear !  "  mildly  said  Madame  la  Roche. 


SEVEN    YEARS.  99 

"  Madame,"  said  Fanny,  firmly,  "  I  regret  nothing;  I  am 
content  that  things  should  be  as  they  are." 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  this,"  put  in  Marie,  looking  in- 
jured ;  "  that  big  booby  was  always  more  in  her  eyes  than  any- 
thing or  any  one  else." 

Fanny  did  not  reply ;  Madame  la  Roche  wrung  her  hands 
and  looked  distressed. 

"  Oh !  why  did  I  lose  my  money  ?  "  she  ejaculated. 

"  I  did  not  think  Madame  would  turn  on  me,"  said  Marie, 
with  a  meek  resignation  that  seemed  borrowed  from  Charlotte; 
"  but,  thank  Heaven,  I  can  bear  with  many  things.  Come 
along,  Monsieur  Charles,  it  is  time  for  you  to  go  to  bed." 
And  taking  the  child  by  the  hand,  she  left  the  room. 

Madame  la  Roche  looked  at  Fanny,  whose  head  was  resting 
once  more  on  the  corner  of  the  mantel-shelf.  In  the  young 
girl's  heart,  too,  had  rung  that  bitter  cry :  "  Oh,  why  did  I 
lose  my  money  ?  " 

Ay,  it  was  money-loss  did  it  all.  A  little  money,  and  these 
three  would,  as  of  old,  have  quarrelled  but  to  make  her  happy. 
No  other  strife,  but  how  best  to  please  her,  their  darling,  need 
have  arisen  amongst  them.  And  now  her  happiness,  her 
pleasure,  seemed  their  last  thouglit;  she  might  fret  and  break 
her  heart  about  Baptiste, — the  coldness  of  age,  the  sadness  of 
experience  and  of  poverty,  would  make  them  think  lightly  of 
her  trouble. 

A  gentle  voice  roused  her  from  these  sad  thoughts. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  "  I  fear  you  have  tried 
yourself  too  much." 

Fanny  smiled  bravely. 

"  Madame,"  she  said,  "  I  would  do  it  over  again — were  it 
to  be  done,"  she  added  sadly. 

Madame  la  Roche  felt  that  the  young  girl  would  acknowl- 
edge no  more,  and  though  her  mind  was  tender  and  delicate, 
and  could  pity  love  troubles,  even  in  the  midst  of  her  own 
sorrows,  it  was  not  subtle  or  ingenuous  enough  to  extract  the 
acknowledgment  of  grief  from  a  sad  young  heart.  She  gave 
Fanny  a  pitiful  look,  and  feeling  unable  to  comfort  her,  she 
rose,  and  bidding  her  a  good  night,  hoped  "  she  would  try  and 
sleep." 

Madame  la  Roche  went  to  her  room,  and  Fanny  to  her 
little  bed  in  the  closet ;  but  the  sound  sleep  of  youth  came  not 
near  her.  She  sighed  and  wept,  and  sighed  again,  and  was 
glad  to  see  the  dull  light  of  morning  creeping  in,  and  to  get  up 
to  the  dull  cares  of  the   day.     She  prepared  the  breakfast  as 


100  SEVEN    TEARS. 

usual,  and  as  usual  she  did  it  neatly  and  handily  without 
noise  or  seeming  trouble  ;  but  her  sorrow  slept  in  her  own 
heart,  unallayed  and  undisturbed  by  the  screaming  and  scold- 
ing that  went  on  around  her. 

"  Monsieur  Charles,  will  you  be  quiet !  "  said  Marie,  in  a 
voice  of  subdued  indignation,  that  for  a  moment  at  least 
checked  the  boy.  He  was  galloping  across  the  room  astride 
on  an  old  cotton  umbrella,  but  he  stopped  when  Marie  told  him 
to  let  his  grandmother  sleep. 

"  She  was  always  a  late  sleeper,"  added  Marie,  turning  to 
Charlotte,  "  and  it  is  not  because  the  dear  lady  is  poor  that 
she  is  not  to  sleep.     That  costs  nothing  at  least." 

"  Time  enough  to  waken  to  care  and  sorrow,"  groaned 
Charlotte. 

"  Very  true,"  approvingly  remarked  Marie. 

There  was  this  particular  beauty  in  the  quarrels  of  Marie 
and  Charlotte,  that  they  ended  every  evening.  Every  morn- 
ing these  two  enemies  woke  friends,  and  began  on  a  fresh 
score.  Thus  their  pastime  was  never  over,  and  they  could 
agree  and  disagree  to  their  life's  end  and  to  their  heart's  con- 
tent. A  ceaseless  quarrel  would  not  have  answered  the  pur- 
pose by  any  means ;  whereas  these  intervals  of  truce  gave 
something  like  zest  to  the  battle.  On  the  principle  of  peace 
they  now  agreed  that  Madame  la  Roche  could  not  do  better 
than  sleep  in  the  morning,  and  on  the  principle  of  war  they 
soon  emitted  different  opinions  on  sleep  in  general,  and  on 
dreams  in  particular. 

"  The  best  sleep  is  the  last,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  I  like  tlie  first  best,"  replied  Marie. 

"  Perhaps  your  early  dreams  are  the  pleasantest,"  said 
Charlotte,  smiling. 

"  Perhaps  they  are,"  retorted  Marie. 

"  They  may  refer  to  your  early  years  and  triumphs,"  con- 
timied  Charlotte,  sweetly. 

"  Ah !  well,"  sighed  Marie,  '•  if  early  sleep  makes  early 
dreams,  you  may  well  like  the  last  sleep  best.  You  need  not 
dream  of  your  husband — poor  man." 

Charlotte  inquired  into  her  exact  meaning,  and  why  she 
used  the  adjective  poor. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  sagaciously  said  Marie,  "  and  so  do 
many  besides  me,"  she  added,  sotto  voce. 

"  Never  was  any  good  got  by  keeping  low  company," 
sighed  Charlotte. 

"  Please  to  explain,"  rejoined  Marie. 


SEVEN    TEARS.  101 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  was  the  quiet  retort. 

On  these  first  random  shots  followed  a  sharp  fusillade,  and 
when  Fanny  awoke  from  her  sad  dreams  she  found  herself  in 
the  very  din  of  war.  She  looked  at  them  listlessly,  whilst  the 
beseeching  voice  of  Madame  la  Roche  was  heard  exclaiming 
from  within : 

"  Charlotte,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

At  once  Charlotte  went  in  to  her  mistress. 

"  Ay,  Fanny,  let  her  go  and  tell  her  story  to  Madame,* 
said  Marie,  "  let  her,  Fanny, — we  scorn  her." 

"  Breakfast  is  ready,"  said  Fanny,  cold  and  passive.  She 
laid  the  cloth,  and  filled  out  two  large  coffee  cups  with  the 
beverage  in  which  the  French  excel.  In  a  smaller  cup  of 
Sevres  china  she  poured  rich  chocolate.  The  cup  had  been 
Madame  la  Roche's  breakfast-cup  since  she  was  a  bride. 
Chocolate  of  the  choicest  quality  was  the  breakfast  she  pre- 
ferred ;  with  pardonable  extravagance,  and  spite  altered  cir- 
cumstances, her  two  old  servants  would  not  hear  of  her  giving 
it  up. 

Charlotte  soon  came  out  of  her  mistress's  room,  took  the 
chocolate,  and  carried  it  in  with  a  grand  air.  Charles,  who 
always  shared  his  grandmother's  dainty,  slipped  in  after  her. 

Marie  sat  down  and  took  her  breakfast,  without  waiting  for 
her  fellow-servant. 

"  Do  like  me,  Fanny,"  she  added,  addressing  the  young 
girl,  "  do  not  mind  her ;  treat  her  with  contempt,  and  take 
your  breakfast." 

"  I  am  not  hungry,"  replied  Fanny. 

"  Not  hungry,  child  ;  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you 
mind  her?  take  your  breakfast,  Fanny,  and  let  her  go  on  as 
she  likes,  and  despise  it  all." 

Spite  this  touching  exhortation,  Fanny  did  not  eat,  and 
Marie  had  finished  her  solitary  meal  by  the  time  Charlotte 
condescended  to  come  forth  and  sit  down  to  her  coffee,  which 
Fanny  had  kept  warm. 

"Thank  Heaven,"  said  Marie,  rising  from  the  table, 
"  thank  Heaven,  I  never  eat  the  bread  of  idleness.  I  work, 
and  I  am  proud  to  work,"  she  added,  pinning  on  her  shawl. 

"  Some  pcoplj  are  in  independent  circumstances,  and  need 
Qot  work,"  placidly  said  Charlotte. 

This  was  almost  more  than  Marie,  going  out  as  a  day- 
servant  for  the  general  good,  could  bear  with  patience.  Rut 
she  controlled  herself  as  she  thought,  and  said  mildly  : 

"  I  thank  Heaven  that  if  I  have  to  earn  my  bread  by  going 


102  SEVEN    YEARS. 

out,  a  hard  fate  at  my  age,  I  am  at  least  appreciated  where  t 
go.  Madame  le  Brun  is  already  as  fond  of  me  as  if  I  had 
been  years  with  her.  It  is  Marie  here,  and  Marie  there,  and 
Marie  every  thing.  If  I  only  would  go  and  live  with  her  I 
might  do  so.  It  was  only  last  night  that  she  said  to  me : 
'  Marie,  I  wonder  at  a  girl  of  your  spirit  remaining  as  you  are ; 
I  wonder  at  you.  Come  with  me  and  make  me  comfortable, 
ani  I  will  make  you  happy,  and  after  I  die,  Marie,  you  shall 
be  provided  for.'  '  No,  no,  Madame,'  I  replied,  '  I  cannot  do 
that;  I  have  my  dear  mistress,  who,  though  not  dependent 
upon  me,  requires  me ;  then  I  must  dress  Monsieur  Charles, 
the  little  darling,  in  the  morning :  and  there  is  my  little  Fan- 
ny, a  good  work-woman,  but  a  little  giddy,  flighty  thing,  who 
requires  an  older  and  a  wiser  head  than  her  own  to  rule  her ; 
and  then,  Madame,'  I  added,  '  there  is  a  poor  old  thing,  a 
helpless  fellow-servant  of  mine,  Madame,  who  has  nothing  but 
my  poor  earnings,  Madame,  and  I  would  die,  Madame,  and  I 
would  have  my  right  hand  cut  off,  Madame,  before  I  would 
forsake  her,  Madame.'  '  Very  pi-oper,'  said  Madame  le  Brun; 
'  I  admire  you,  Marie;  stick  to  her,  poor  old  thing;  do  not 
forsake  her,  Marie.     If  you  do,  who  will  mind  her  ?  " 

Here  Marie  stopped,  perhaps  because  she  was  out  of  breath, 
perhaps  because  she  wished  to  see  what  effect  she  had  pro- 
duced. Charlotte  Avas  still  drinking  her  coffee,  the  contents 
of  which  she  longed  to  throw  in  the  face  of  her  devoted  fel- 
low-servant. A  few  words,  slowly  uttered,  comprised  her  re- 
venge. 

"  You  see,  Fanny,"  she  said,  addressing  the  young  girl, 
"  you  see  what  age  can  do.  It  impairs  body,  mind,  memory, 
all,  and  makes  us  what  you  behold,"  she  added,  casting  on 
Marie  a  look  of  deep  compassion. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  the  soft  plaintive  voice  of 
Madame  la  Roche,  who  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the 
room.     "  What  have  you  been  saying  ?  " 

Swiftly  did  Marie  reply  with  a  short  laugh : 

"  Oh  !  nothing,  Madame.  Charlotte,  though  she  knows  I 
am  younger  than  Madame,  throws  my  age  in  my  face.  We 
are  both  in  second  childhood,  Madame.  However,  I  can 
work,  thank  Heaven.  And  there  is  this  comfort  at  least,  that 
Madame  Charlotte  cannot  say  I  am  a  dependant  upon  her." 

So  saying,  Marie  majestically  went  out,  slammed  the  door, 
and  in  going  down,  slipped  and  fell. 

The  sound  of  her  fall  brought  out  the  whole  family  and  a 
neighbour  on  the  landing.     They  found  Marie  senseless  with 


SEVEN    TEAKS.  103 

the  pain.  Not  without  trouble,  for  she  was  a  great  weight, 
they  carried  her  iu,  and  laid  her  on  a  bed.  A  little  vinegar 
soon  restored  her  to  consciousness.  Without  saying  a  word, 
Marie  sat  up,  felt  her  foot,  groaned  with  pain,  then  sank  back 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh  !  my  work,  my  work,"  she  moaned.  "  My  work  and 
my  wages  !     I  have  sprained  my  ancle." 

Charlotte  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  Never  mind,  dear,''  she  said,  "  I'll  do  your  work  for 
you." 

Marie  did  not  reply,  but  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and 
cried  bitterly. 

CHAPTER  XX. 

Marie  had  indeed  sprained  her  ancle,  and  the  doctor,  who 
was  immediately  called  in,  coolly  declared  she  should  not  stir 
for  six  weeks. 

"  But  I  must,"  said  Marie;   "  I  have  work  to  do." 

"  You  cannot,"  he  replied. 

"She  shall  not,"  declared  Charlotte.  "We  have  been 
fellow  servants  forty  years  and  more,  and  it  will  go  hard  in- 
deed if  I  cannot  work  whilst  Marie  stays  quiet." 

Marie  was  considerably  affected  by  these  generous  senti- 
ments, and  as  she  really  could  not  move,  she  submitted  with 
tolerable  grace  to  Charlotte's  patronage. 

Charlotte's  rheumatism  was  indeed  so  far  better  that  she 
could  supply  Marie's  place  with  Madame  le  Brun ;  but  if  she 
went  out  and  worked,  Fanny  had  to  spend  many  days  at  home 
to  attend  on  the  patient. 

Madame  la  Roche  was  too  inexperienced  and  too  delicate 
for  the  task,  so  that  Charlotte's  devotedness  was  a  very  doubt- 
ful piece  of  economy.  This  Fanny  vainly  tried  to  make  her 
understand.  Charlotte  was  too  happy  in  her  magnanimity  to 
give  it  up  so  easily. 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  Marie,  as  she  got  better,  grew  tired  of 
kindness ;  she  became  more  than  usually  irritable  and  fantas- 
tic, and  Fanny  paid  the  penalty  of  her  caprices.  Nothing 
would  do  her  one  evening,  but  that  the  young  girl  should  go  to 
Madame  Grand's,  and  claim  a  book  of  dreams,  formerly  lent 
in  times  of  amity  to  that  lady. 

"  But  I  am  so  busy,"  objected  Fanny,  "  and  Charlotte 
passes  the  door  every  day." 


104:  SEVEN    YEAE8. 

*'  And  do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  ask  Charlotte  ?  "  waa 
the  indignant  reply.  "  Charlotte,  who  gives  herself  such  airs 
just  because  she  goes  to  Madame  le  Brun  in  my  stead  !  No, 
child,  thank  Heaven,  I  am  not  quite  so  mean,  and  you  shall 
either  get  me  that  book,  or  I  shall  do  without  it  till  I  am  well 
again." 

"  Very  well,  I  shall  go,"  replied  Fanny  ;  and  she  thought, 
"  it  is  evening,  I  shall  not  see  Baptiste,  nor  will  he  see  nie." 

Yet  it  was  not  without  emotion  that  Fanny  reentered  once 
more  the  well-known  street,  caught  a  gliu)pse  of  Baptiste's 
shop,  and  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  old  number  two. 

"  Uh,  Fanny  !  "  said  Madame  Grand,  who  had  put  her  head 
out  to  see  who  it  was,  "  well,  my  dear,  how  are  you,  and  whom 
do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Marie  sends  me,"  replied  Fanny,  who  folt  the  patronizing 
tone ;  "  she  lent  you  a  dream-book  formerly,  and  must  trouble 
you  for  it  now." 

Madame  Grand  lauglied  and  seemed  amused. 

"  A  dream-book  !  tell  hex-,  my  dear,  that  she  dreamt  it. 
Bless  you,  child,  I  have  not  and  never  had  such  a  thing. 
Poor  Marie,  she  is  getting  old,  I  see.  But  just  come  here,  my 
dear,  I  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  you." 

Fanny  reluctantly  complied,  and  drew  near  Madame 
Grand,  who  confidentially  whispered  : 

"  I  am  very  sorry  about  Baptiste.  I  assure  you  we  all 
think  you  very  ill  used.      I  cannot  bear  to  look  at  the  man." 

"  I  do  not  complain  of  Baptiste,  I  have  no  right,"  said 
Fanny,  coldly. 

"  No  right !  "  echoed  Madame  Grand.  "  The  man  who  was 
to  have  married  you  marrying  another  girl,  and  a  little  pink- 
eyed  thing,  too.     No  right !     Why,  child,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  Monsieur  Watt  was  free  to  marry,  and  does  me  no 
wrong." 

She  still  spoke  calmly,  for,  to  say  the  truth,  she  did  not  be- 
lieve a  word  Madame  Grand  had  uttered. 

"  Well,  well,  people  will  be  proud,"  muttered  Madame 
Grand,  not  looking  well  pleased  ;  "  as  you  like,  my  dear;  but, 
let  me  tell  you,  other  people  know  best." 

"  Good  evening,"  coldly  said  Fanny,  and  she  turned  away 
apparently  unmoved. 

She  left  the  house  and  the  street  without  having  seen 
Baptiste,  or  cast  a  look  towards  his  shop.  Coming,  she  had  a 
vague  unacknowledged  hope  that  they  might  meet  by  chance, 
and  that  this   meeting,  though  fruitless,  might  yield  to  both  a 


SEVEN    TEAKS.  105 

(sort  of  bitter  joy.  But  now  Fanny  bad  no  sucb  bope  or  wisb. 
Sbe  bastened  away  like  one  pursued,  and  did  not  slacken  ber 
pace  till  all  danger  of  meeting  was  over.  So  far  tbe  words  of 
Madame  Grand  had  borne  tbeir  fruit. 

"VVben  tlie  young  girl  reentered  the  bouse  sbe  found  Chai-- 
lotte,  who  had  just  come  in,  anytbing  but  pleased  at  her  absence, 
and  at  tbe  cause  of  it,  which  Marie  had  not  chosen  to  conceal. 
Magnanimity,  though  sweet,  wearies  in  the  end,  and  Cliarlotte 
was  getting  tired  of  being  magiianimous  ;  accordingly,  when 
Fanny  brietiy  delivered  Madame  Grand's  message,  to  the  pur- 
port that  that  lady  had  not  and  bad  never  bad  a  dream-book, 
Charlotte  exclaimed,  without  waiting  for  Marie's  reply  : 

"  A  dream-book  !  Absurd.  I  had  an  aunt  who  believed 
in  dreams,  and  who  missed  marrying  a  captain,  because  the 
night  before  he  made  his  proposal  sbe  had  dreamed  of  carrots." 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  young  carrots,"  softly  said  Madame  la 
Kocbe,  hoping  to  allay  tbe  storm,  but  only  added  to  its  force, 
by  giving  Marie  time  to  subdue  the  first  bursts  of  her  anger, 
and  meditate  before  sbe  aimed  her  blow. 

Charlotte  had  sat  down  on  a  chair  like  one  tired. 

"  How  very  fatigued  you  look,"  said  Marie. 

"Not  I,"  curtly  replied  Charlotte,  "  not  L  How  is  your 
ancle  ?  " 

"  Almost  well,  thank  you.  I  know  you  feel  this  over-exer- 
tion, but  it  will  soon  be  over,  I  shall  soon  be  well  again." 

"  My  dear  Marie,"  kindly  observed  Charlotte,  "  I  did  not 
like  to  say  so,  because  I  would  not  hurt  your  feelings,  but  it 
is  time  you  should  know  tbe  truth  :  you  need  not  return  to 
Madame  le  Brun's." 

"  What !  "  said  Marie. 

"You  need  not  return  to  Modame  le  Brun's.  I  am  sorry 
to  say  sbe  has  not  shown  a  proper  sense  of  gratitude  to  you. 
Her  language  and  ber  tone  are  not  resj^ectfub" 

"  Ab !  bab  !  "  said  Marie,  with  sceptical  irony. 

"  Sbe  has  quite  hurt  my  feelings,"  pursued  Charlotte  ; 
'• '  that  old  Marie  was  a  bore,'  sbe  says,  '  and  tbe  charcoal  she 
used  to  burn,  my  dear !  such  waste,  sucb  extravagance  !  As 
for  ber  cooking,  it  was  poor  in  tbe  extreme.  She  tried  three 
times  to  fricasse  a  chicken,  and  sbe  could  not.  Sbe  woul'l 
not,  my  dear.  I  am  sorry  for  her  ancle,  but  I  am  not  sorry 
to  be  rid  of  ber ;  I  really  am  not.  You  suit  me  much  better.' 
You  do  not  call  that  gratitude,  do  you  ? "  added  Charlotte, 
turning  to  Marie. 


106  SEVEN   YEAES. 

"  I  call  it  a  scandalous  invention,"  replied  Marie,  trem- 
bling witli  passion. 

"  Time  will  show,"  said  Charlotte,  calmly,  "  time  will 
show.  I  might  tell  you  a  great  deal  more  that  Madame  le 
Brun  says,  but  where  is  the  use  ?  it  would  only  exasperate  you, 
and  I  do  not  want  to  do  that,"  kindly  added  Charlotte. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  sighed  Madame  la  Roche,  "  why  did  I  lose 
my  money?  I  had  always  heard  the  poor  were  so  good  and  so 
kind  to  each  other,  but  I  am  afraid,  I  really  am,  tliat  their 
poverty  makes  them  bitter,  and  that  they  only  know  how  to 
snap,  snarl,  and  bite." 

"  I  suppose  Madame  means  that  for  me,"  said  Marie.  "  I 
was  never  told  before  that  I  was  given  to  biting." 

"  I  think  it  is  a  judgment  on  us  about  that  poor  Baptiste,' 
resumed  Madame  la  Roclae  ;  "  we  did  not  behave  well  to  him  ; 
we  really  did  not." 

Fanny  smiled  with  some  bitterness,  but  wer^t  on  with  her 
sewing.  This  allusion  to  Baptiste  restored  sudden  peace  be- 
tween the  contending  parties. 

"  Oh  !  if  Madame  takes  Baptiste's  part,"  began  Marie. 
"  If   she  thinks  we  have  not   behaved  well  to    that  pre- 
sumptuous young  fellow  ! "  said  Charlotte. 

"  Dear  me,  I  think  nothing,"  said  Madame  la  Eoche, 
rather  frightened,  and  hoping  by  this  declaration  to  be  on  the 
safe  side.  But  tliough  respectful  in  form,  the  reproaches  of 
her  two  old  servants  might  have  been  bitter  in  spirit,  if, 
looking  up  at  them  both,  Fanny  had  not  said : 

"  I  do  not  care  to  hear  Baptiste  praised,  for  no  one  knows 
half  the  good  of  him  that  I  do  ;  but  I  will  not  hear  him 
blamed  by  those  who  have  no  right  to  blame  him." 

This  rather  peremptory  speech  diverted  the  storm  from 
Baptiste  to  Fanny;  she  received  reproaches,  remonstrances, 
and  arguments  with  freezing  coldness,  and  heard  them 
without  a  word. 

"  I  am  sure  she  still  thinks  of  him."  said  Marie. 
"  I  always  shall,"  said  Fanny,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 
"Well,  then,  my  dear,"  said  Charlotte,  after  a  pause,  "do 
not.     For    some    days  I  have   known  what  I   must  tell  you 
now." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  interrupted  Fanny,  turning  very 
red  ;  "  I  know  what  you  mean,  but  I  do  not  beiieve  it ;  you 
have  been  misinformed." 

'•  I  tell  you,  child,  I  read  it  with  my  own  eyes  at  the  doox 
of  the  Mairie  :  Baptiste  Watt  is  going  to  get  married," 


SEVEN    YEAKS.  107 

Fanny  clasped  her  hands  tightly,  and  seemed  to  gasp  foi 
Lix-ath,  but  she  soon  recovered,  and  said  quietly  : 

'•  Oh !  very  well,"  and  she  resumed  her  work  with  assumed 
calmness 

This  incident  broke  the  tide  oi  war,  but  did  not  prevent 
Marie  from  brooding  uneasily  over  the  words  of  Charlotte. 

Such  indeed  was  the  result  of  her  meditations,  that  she 
I  osolved  to  put  the  gratitude  of  Madame  le  Brun  to  speedy 
proof.  She  knew  it  was  that  lady's  intention  to  send  Charlotte 
out  at  two  the  next  day,  and  at  two,  accordingly,  Marie 
dressed  herself  and  went  out.  Her  ancle  was  now  almost 
well,  and  it  was  little  trouble  to  her  to  walk,  and  with  a  cool 
and  deliberate  air  she  called  on  her  former  mistress. 

Madame  le  Brun  lived  on  a  second  floor  in  a  quiet  house. 
She  was  a  widow  of  forty  odd,  a  thin,  nervous,  eccentric 
lady,  who  received  Marie  like  an  utter  stranger. 

"  Madame  does  not  seem  to  recognise  me,"  said  Marie, 
rather  huffed.      "  I  am  Marie." 

"  Oh  !  dear  me,  Marie !  yes,  I  remember,  she  was  very 
stout,  and  something  happened  to  her  foot." 

"  I  am  Marie,"  said  Marie  again. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see.     I  liked  her  very  much." 

This  seemed  favorable,  though  it  was  rather  puzzling, 
when  one  was  present,  to  be  treated  like  a  past  and  absent  in- 
dividual. However,  Marie  was  determined  to  take  the  best 
view  of  the  case,  and  she  observed  strongly  : 

"  Madame  says  she  likes  me,  but  if  I  were  to  believe  Char- 
lotte—" 

''  Do  not  mention  her,"  interrupted  Madame  le  Brun, 
shivering,  "  I  detest  her." 

Marie  beamed  again. 

"  Dear  me,  what  can  the  poor  thing  hive  done  ?"  she 
asked,  seeming  shocked. 

"  All  sorts  of  things,"  replied  Madame  le  Brun ;  "  she 
has  broken  china  and  denied  it." 

Marie  shook  her  head,  and  confessed  that  to  break  and 
then  deny  was  very  like  Charlotte, 

"  Besides,  I  am  sick  of  her,"  resumed  Madame  le  Brun. 

"  And  that  is  the  best  reason  of  all,"  said  Marie,  with  a 
triumphant  chuckle ;  "  I  suppose  Madame  does  not  mean  to 
keep  her." 

"  iS^o,  indeed." 

"  And  when  shall  I  return  to  Madame  ?"  asked  Marie, 
with  her  most  insinuating  smile. 


108  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

"  I  shall  let  you  know,"  graciously  replied  Madame  le 
Brun  ;  "  good  morning." 

"  And  not  a  word  about  the  charcoal  or  the  fricasse,"  tri- 
umphantly thought  Marie,  going  home  ;  "  I  knew  it  was  all 
invention — I  knew  it." 

Marie  could  scarcely  keep  in  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and 
when  evening  came  and  Charlotte  returned  from  Madame  le 
Brun's,  and  imprudently  indulged  in  the  following  bit  of 
boasting : 

"  I  wonder,  Marie,  you  could  not  succeed  in  attaching 
Madame  le  Brun  to  you  !  She  might  have  been  a  most  useful 
friend.  I  do  nothing  to  please  her,  nothing  beyond  my  duty, 
and  she  is  always  so  gracious  and  civil.  She  liked  my  fricasse 
chicken  very  much  to-day.  '  Charlotte,  you  excel  in  that,' 
she  said,  '  and  as  to  how  you  make  five  bushels  of  charcoal 
last  three  weeks — why,  it  amazes  me.'  " 

When  we  say  Charlotte  spoke  thus,  and  Marie  heard  her, 
Marie  could  not  help  saying : 

"  I  thiuk,  Charlotte,  I  shall  be  rendering  you  a  service  by 
telling  you  the  truth.  I  called  on  Madame  le  Brun  to-day; 
I  had  a  little  private  and  confidential  conversation  with  her, 
and  I  was  sorry  to  learn  she  was  not  quite  pleased  with  you. 
The  china  you  have  broken,  and  your  denial  of  it,  have 
amazed  her,  to  say  the  least.  Charcoal  and  fricasse  are  not 
every  thing,  my  dear  Charlotte — there  must  be  trust,  there 
must  be  trust ;  and,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  as  I  am  to  re- 
sume my  services  with  Madame  le  Brun,  the  best  thing  you 
can  do  is  to  drop  off  of  your  own  accord,  and  not  be  told  to 
stay  at  home." 

"  Oh !  that  is  it,  is  it  ?"  said  Charlotte,  with  a  freezing 
smile ;  "  you  think  me  easily  managed,  I  perceive,  but  all  I 
say  is  this  :  you  do  not  know  Madame  le  Brun,  and  I  do  ;  at 
least,  I  think  so.  She  told  me  you  had  been  there  to-day. 
She  made  no  mystery  of  it,  I  promise  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Marie,  with  a  prim  smile." 

"  Dear  me,  who  can  be  ringing  at  this  hour  ?"  exclaimed 
Madame  la  Roche.  "  It  sounds  like  Baptiste's  ring, — but  it 
cannot  be  Baptiste." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Fanny,  rising  to  open  the  door,  "  it  ia 
not  Baptiste." 

It  was  not  Baptiste,  but  a  round-faced  buxom  woman,  in  a 
white  cap,  who  asked  "  if  Charlotte  lived  there." 

"  You  might  say  Madame,"  put  in  Charlotte,  from  her 
chair. 


SEVEN    YEAES.  100 

"  Madame,  if  jou  like,"  replied  the  buxom  woman,  with  a 
good-humored  smile,   "  we  will  not  quarrel  about  it." 

"  What  is  your  errand  ?"  asked  Madame  la  Roche,  with  a 
quiet  dignity,  which  the  woman  acknowledged  by  directing  to 
her  all  her  further  discourse. 

"  I  am  sent  by  Madame  le  Brun,"  she  said,  "  to  tell 
Madame  Charlotte  that  here  is  her  money," — and  she  laid 
down  a  few  five-franc  pieces  on  the  table, — "  and  that  she  need 
not  come  any  more." 

"  I  knew  it,"  Marie  could  not  help  exclaiming,  "  I  knew 
it;  but  Madame  Charlotte  would  not  believe  me — not  she! 
Well,  well,  pride  will  have  a  fall !  And  when  am  I  to  call  on 
Madame  le  Brun  ?"  she  added,  brightening  up. 

"  When  you  like,"  replied  the  woman,  smiling. 

"  Tlien  tell  Madame  le  Brun  I  shall  be  with  her  to-morrow 
at  eleven,"  said  Marie,  with  dignity.  "  Tell  her  that.  But 
perhaps  you  will  not  see  her  before  that  time  ?  " 

"  Not  see  her  !  "  said  the  woman  smiling,  "  why,  I  am  her 
servant." 

"  What ! "  cried  Marie,  whilst  Charlotte  burst  into  a  loud 
laugh. 

"I  say  I  am  her  servant,"  replied  the  woman,  "but  you 
may  come  all  the  same,  and  if  you  are  the  stout  old  woman 
called  Marie,  as  I  suppose,  please  to  bring  back  the  key  of  the 
dining-room  cupboard  you  took  away.  Good  evening,  ladies." 
And  with  a  cool  nod  around,  the  buxom  good-humoured  woman 
took  her  leave  and  closed  the  door. 

Madame  la  Roche,  confounded  that  such  strange  things 
should  take  place  in  her  presence,  uttered  not  a  word.  Marie 
stai'ed  at  the  wall  opposite  her,  muttering  broken  words,  in 
which  "  stout  old  woman  "  and  "  the  key  of  the  dining-room 
cupboard  "  recurred  three  times.  Charlotte  looked  vacantly 
at  the  three  pieces  on  the  table,  but  she  saw  them  not;  and  yet, 
of  all  that  had  passed,  these  three  coins  impressed  Fanny 
most. 

"  Fifteen  francs  !  "  she  thought,  "  and  I  have  not  more  than 
twenty,  and  our  rent  is  coming  on." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

So  sore  a  blow  did  not,  unfortunately,  conduce  to  the  peaco 
of  the  little  family.  Charlotte  and  Marie  threw  on  each  other 
the  blame  of  Madame  le  Brun's  defection,  which  might  have 


110  SEVEN    YEAES. 

been  more  safely  attributed  to  that  lady's  capricious  temper , 
and  they  left  the  result  to  the  anxious  thoughts  of  Fanny,  who 
from  the  first  had  been  purse  keeper.  Matters  had  been  draw- 
ing to  a  crisis  for  some  time,  and  the  young  girl  was  at  length 
obliged  to  speak  plainly  to  Madame  la  Roche,  and  tell  her 
without  disguise  in  what  position  they  stood. 

Madame  la  Roche  clasped  her  hands,  and  looked  piteous. 

"  No  money,"  she  said,  "  and  dissension  and  strife  from 
morning  till  night.  Formerly  Marie  and  Charlotte  quarrelled  ; 
but  it  was  in  the  kitchen  or  in  the  dining-room,  and  one  did 
not  hear  it  always ;  and  then  one  had  the  comfort  of  knowing 
that  tbey  liked  it ;  but  now  they  have  nothing  else  to  do,  and 
they  are  ever  at  it,  and  we  are  all  together,  and  I  declare  my 
head  aches  with  the  din." 

"  Yes,  it  is  tiresome,"  apathetically  said  Fanny.  Her  heart 
was  full  of  her  own  troubles,  and  the  annoyances  of  Madame 
la  Roche  sounded  idle  and  weak.  Besides,  Madame  la  Roche 
had  suggested  no  cure  to  the  great  trouble  of  all — want  of 
money,  and  of  this  Fanny  reminded  her  gently  : 

"  What  is  to  be  done,  Madame  ?  "  she  asked.  "  That  my 
god-mother  and  Marie  should  quarrel  is  tiresome  ;  but  that 
thei'e  should  be  no  money  in  the  house  seems  worse." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  with  evident 
distress  ;  "  well,  Fanny,  all  this  quarrelling  has  set  me  thinking 
for  some  time,  for  really  the  noise  alone  is  too  much,  and  I 
think  now  we  must  act.  I  shall  write  a  letter,  and  you  must 
take  it,  to  Monsieur  Nolret." 

"  Monsieur  Noiret  I  "  echoed  Fanny  with  a  slight  start, 
"  he  has  never  come  near  us,  Madame." 

"  He  is  like  the  woidd,  my  dear,"  sighed  Madame  la  Roche  ; 
"  yet  if  he  can  assist  us  without  detriment  to  himself,  he  will  do 
so.     I  shall  write  the  letter,  and  you  will  take  it." 

Fanny  raised  no  further  opposition  ;  the  letter  was  written, 
and  without  even  inquiring  into  the  nature  of  its  contents, 
the  young  girl  took  it  to  Monsieur  Noiret. 

Monsieur  Noiret  was  an  old  bourgeois  of  the  old  school ; 
he  had  lived  in  comfortable  style  in  a  comfortable  apartment 
of  a  house  in  the  Marais,  not  far  from  the  former  residence  ot 
Madame  la  Roche.  Fanny  shunned  the  street  in  which  Bap- 
tiste  still  resided,  and  took  a  turn  to  reach  Monsieur  Noiret's 
dwelling.  It  was  a  venerable  old  mansion,  built  round  a  court- 
yard, the  centre  of  which  was  a  little  garden,  with  a  few  young 
lilac  trees  budding  into  verdure,  for  March  was  nearly  over 
and  spring  had  begun,  and  with  spring  flowers,  green  leaves 


SEVEN    YEARS.  Ill 

and  the  song  of  birds  had  come.  In  sunny  rooms  on  the 
second  floor  resided  Monsieur  Noiret.  A  demure-looking  ser- 
vant, in  a  close  white  cap,  and  with  a  curious  twinkle  in  her 
grey  eyes,  answered  Fanny's  hesitating  ring,  and  slowly  eyed 
her  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Monsieur  Noiret,"  said  Fanny. 

"  He  is  at  luncheon,"  replied  the  demure  servant. 

"  Can  I  wait  until  he  has  done  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  may  sit  here." 

And  Fanny  was  ushered  in,  and  told  to  sit  down  in  a  green 
ante  room  with  plain  oak  chairs. 

"  You  are  very  young,  if  you  are  come  for  the  place,"  said 
the  demure  servant ;   "  Monsieur  does  not  like  young  girls." 

"  I  am  not  come  for  the  place,"  said  Fanny,  "  I  bring  a 
letter." 

"  Oh,  a  letter  !  I  thought  you  Avere  come  for  the  place  : 
I  am  leaving ;  L  am  going  to  get  married  "  Her  grey  eyes 
twinkled  again  as  she  said  it ;  she  seemed  in  a  communicative 
mood.  Fanny,  however,  heard  her  without  apparent  emotion 
or  interest ;  a  profound  apathetic  indifi'erence  spread  for  her 
over  every  high  or  low  detail  of  life. 

"  Who  is  there  V "  asked  Monsieur  Noiret's  voice  from 
within. 

"  Fanny,  from  Madame  la  Roche,"  said  the  young  girl,  ad- 
dressing the  servant  who  went  in  with  the  message,  and  pre- 
sently came  out  again  and  ushered  Fanny  into  a  comfortable 
dining-room,  painted  oak  color,  and  furnished  with  plain  ma- 
hogany and  red  morocco.  Before  a  table  covered  with  a  sub- 
stantial meal  sat  Monsieur  Noiret.  He  smiled  graciously  to 
Fanny,  and  pointed  to  a  chair. 

"  And  what  news  from  Madame  la  Roche  f  he  asked,  his 
white  teeth  shining. 

"  I  bring  a  letter,  sir." 

"A  letter!"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  carving  the  leg  of  a 
cold  capon  ;  "  and  have  you  any  reason  to  suppose,  my  dear, 
that  it  requires  to  be  read  immediately — that  it  cannot  wait 
half  an  hour,  for  instance  f 

"  I  think  it  can  wait,  sir." 

"  Well,  then,  ray  dear,  we  will  let  it  wait,"  rejoined  Mon- 
sieur Noiret,  making  two  mouthfuls  of  the  capon's  limb ;  "  but 
''if  reading  be  injurious  to  digestion,  talking,  on  the  contrary, 
is  excellent,  and  therefore  let  us  talk.     Are  you  married  yet  f 

Fanny  gave  a  start  like  one  that  receives  an  unseen  blow, 


112  SEVEN   YEARS. 

but  soon  mastered  this  involuntary  emotion,  and  said  quietly 
enough : 

"  No,  sir." 

Monsieur  Noiret  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  said 
emphatically : 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  marry,  Fanny?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,"  he  resumed. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell,  sir,"  rather  shortly  replied  the 
young  girl. 

"  I  see,  I  see, — a  lovers'  quarrel,  soon  to  be  made  up." 

"  No,  sir,"  deliberately  said  Fanny  ;  "  for  excellent  reasons 
I  broke  off  my  engagement  with  Baptiste,  and  he,  availing 
himself  of  his  liberty,  is  going  to  marry  another  girl  three  days 
hence.      Making  up  is  out  of  the  question." 

Monsieur  Noiret  whistled,  and  finished  his  meal  in  pro- 
found silence.  When  he  had  drunk  his  last  glass  of  claret,  and 
vainly  pressed  Fanny  to  drink  with  him  and  take  a  biscuit,  he 
deliberately  opened  and  read  Madame  la  Roche's  letter.  He 
smiled  as  he  finished  it,  and  folded  it  u]),  then  rising  he  said 
to  the  yoimg  girl :  "  Fanny,  you  have  never  seen  this  place  of 
mine  ;  come  and  have  a  look  at  it.  Marianne,  who  has  the  keys, 
shall  show  us  the  way." 

Fanny  would  rather  have  said  nay,  but  fearing  to  displease 
the  friend  to  whom  Madame  la  Roche  had  appealed  foi-  assist- 
ance, she  rose  in  token  of  acquiescence  with  Monsieur  Noiret's 
wish.  Marianne  took  a  long  time  to  hear  her  master's  sum- 
mons, which  was  the  more  surprising,  that  having  been  stand- 
ing behind  the  dining-room  door  the  whole  time  of  his  conver- 
sation with  Fanny,  she  must  have  been  aware  of  his  intentions. 
When  she  came  at  length,  she  had  to  spend  another  quarter 
of  an  hour  in  hunting  for  the  keys,  and  when  the  keys  were 
found,  she  plainly  asked  Monsieur  Noiret  what  he  wanted 
them  for. 

He  smiled,  showed  his  two  rows  of  sound  white  teeth,  and 
patting  her  cheek,  said  kindly  : 

"  Get  married,  my  dear,  get  married." 

Thus  lectured,  Marianne  showed  the  way,  and  her  master 
and  Fanny  followed. 

There  was  wealth  and  comfort  in  Monsieur  Noiret's  home. 
The  salon  was  large,  handsome,  and  substantial ;  the  bed- 
rooms were  comfortable  and  plain  ;  the  liitehen.  the  laundry, 
and  all  theii  appurtenances,  were  models  of  cleanliness  and  in- 
genious contrivance.      To  crown  all,  Monsieur  Noiret  took  care 


SEVEN    YEAES.  113 

to  display  to  Fanny's  view  a  goodly  store  of  household  pro- 
visions, and  a  handsome  stock  of  shining  old  plate,  not  tc 
speak  of  a  large  mahogany  press  piled  up  high  with  choice 
damask  linen. 

"  This  is  my  town  house,'*  he  said,  when  the  survey  was 
over  ;  "  my  country  house  you  must  see  later.  It  is  more  of 
a  farm  than  of  a  villa,  with  cows,  calves,  hens,  chickens,  and 
rather  a  pleasant  orchard  full  of  fruit ;  but,  as  I  said,  you  will 
see  that  later,  and  now,  Marianne,  you  may  take  the  keys  and 
leave  us." 

Marianne  would  rather  have  stayed,  but  her  master's  eye 
enjoined  obedience,  and  this  time  he  secured  privacy  by  send- 
ing her  on  an  errand. 

When  Monsieur  Noiret  found  himself  once  more  alone  with 
Fanny  in  the  dining-room,  he  began  pacing  it  up  and  down, 
and  taking  a  grave  look,  he  said,  addressing  the  young  girl, 
who  remained  standing : 

"  And  now,  Fanny,  we  will  come  to  business.  Do  you 
know  what  there  was  in  the  letter  of  Madame  la  Roche  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  do  not." 

"Then  I  will  tell  you.  It  seems  my  two  old  friends, 
Marie  and  Charlotte,  would  be  better  apart,  and  Madame  la 
Roche,  hearing  that  Marianne  is  going  to  get  married  and 
leave  me  to  solitude,  expects  me  to  take  either — she  allows 
me  my  choice — of  the  two  old  ladies.  Now,  Fanny,  you  have 
seen  my  household.  I  leave  it  to  you  to  say  if  eitner  stout 
old  Maria  or  rheumatic  old  Charlotte  is  equal  to  the  task  of 
keeping  everything  in  the  order  I  like,  without  having  another 
servant  under  her." 

Fanny  was  obliged  to  acquiesce  in  the  correctness  of  this 
remark.  Monsieur  Noiret,  still  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  continued  : 

"  I  always  said  that,  rather  than  have  a  servant  and  a 
housekeeper,  I  would  marry  ;  but  I  am,  and  have  always  been, 
particular.  I  like  youth,  beauty,  health,  a  good  heart,  and  a 
good  temper.  You  have  them  all,"  added  Monsieur  Noiret, 
stopping  short  before  Fanny,  "  and  1  have  always  had  a  liking 
for  you.  If  you  will  be  my  wife,  say  so.  I  shall  provide  for 
the  family  you  leave ;  take  either  Charlotte  or  Marie  to  keep 
you  company  ;  make  you  mistress  of  all  I  have  whilst  1  live, 
and  of  half  my  property  after  my  death." 

Monsieur  Noiret  spoke  seriously,  with  his  rich  brown  eyes 
fastened  full  on  Fanny's  face.  The  young  girl  heard  him  tirst 
with  a  mute  surprise  tliat  suspended  every  other  feeling,  then 


114  SEVEN    YEARS. 

a  painful  blush  overspread  her  countenance,  and  coldly  turning 
hei'  head  away,  she  said  quietly : 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,  but  I  cannot  be  your 
wife." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  with  his  unpleas- 
ant smile,  "  I  did  not  mean  you  to  decide  so  hastily.  This 
proposal  expresses  no  new  thought  ot  mine,  though  it  be  new 
to  you.  It  requires  reflection  and  consideration,  my  dear. 
You  feel  sore,  no  doubt,  about  your  former  lover,  and  no  won- 
der ;  but  remember  that  I  am  not  asking  you  for  love.  I  labor 
under  no  illusions.  I  am  strong,  and  I  enjoy  good  health,  but 
I  am  old ;  I  know  it,  and  if  I  wish  for  a  young  wife,  it  is  be- 
cause I  like  youth,  but  I  do  not  expect  youth  to  be  fond  of  me. 
I  believe,  however,  that  I  could  make  you  happy ;  I  have  the 
means  and  the  inclination.  You  are  a  good  little  thing,  and 
in  time  you  would  like  me  as  much  as  I  should  wish  or  expect 
you  to  like  me.  You  see  I  am  reasonable ;  besides,  I  give  you 
time  to  think  over  it.  Say  a  week.  With  regard  to  Madame 
la  Eoche's  letter,  tell  her  simply  what  you  have  seen,  and  how 
impossible  it  is  for  me  to  comply  with  her  request.  And  now, 
my  dear,"  adde  !  Monsieur  Noiret,  "  as  I  have  kept  you  some 
time,  and  as  you  seem  anxious  to  go,  I  will  delay  you  no  longer. 
A  week  hence  I  shall  call  on  Madame  la  Roche  and  hear  your 
answer." 

"  You  may  hear  it  now,  sir,"  said  Fanny :  '•  I  cannot  be 
your  wife." 

"  My  dear,"  replied  Monsieur  Noiret,  with  a  smile,  "  you 
know  nothing  about  it  yet.  This  day  week  I  shall  call  on 
Madame  la  Eoche."  And  with  his  politest  smile  and  bow,  he 
saw  her  to  tlie  door. 

A  reply,  that  would  have  disturbed  the  excellent  opinion 
Monsieur  Noiret  had  conceived  of  Fanny's  temper,  rose  to  the 
young  girl's  lips,  but  she  remembered  that  she  did  not  possess 
the  right  to  alienate  from  Madame  la  Eoche  a  friend,  such  as 
he  was,  and  she  held  her  peace. 

Yet  she  went  home  in  a  strange  fever ;  Baptiste  was  going 
to  marry,  she  had  read  his  name  and  that  of  his  betrothed  on 
the  bill  of  tlie  Mairie ;  after  to-morrow  he  was  to  marry  in  the 
little  parish  church  in  which  they  were  to  have  been  united  ; 
but  still  this  did  not  seem  such  utter  separation  from  him  as  to 
be  asked  to  become  Monsieur  Noiret's  wife.  To  belong  to  that 
old  man,  to  live  with  him  in  his  comfortable  and  stately,  but 
rather  gloomy,  home,  to  move  in  another  circle,  and  become  a 
member  of  another  world,  to  be,  in   siiort,  Madame  Noiret, 


SEVEN    TEARS.  115 

seemed  a  change  so  strange  and  so  entire,  that  no  extremity, 
Fanny  thought,  couhl  bring  her  to  it. 

In  this  mood  she  reached  home,  and  found  Madame  la 
Eoche  looking  on  hopelessly,  whilst  Marie  and  Charlotte,  to 
whom  she  had  unfortunately  confided  the  contents  of  her  note 
to  Monsieur  Noiret,  were  both  vehemently  declaring,  that  no 
consideration  should  induce  them  to  enter  that  gentleman's 
house,  no  matter  in  what  capacity. 

Fanny,  who  had  got  to  be  a  little  bit  of  a  misanthrope  of 
late,  .smiled  with  some  bitterness  at  the  useless  strife. 

"  You  need  not  trouble,  eitlier  of  you,"  she  said,  coldly ; 
"  Monsieur  Noiret  will  have  neither  Marie  nor  Charlotte,  unless 
on  a  condition  with  which  1  shall  certainly  not  comply.'" 

"  A  condition  !  what  condition,  my  dear,"  asked  Madame 
la  Roche. 

Fanny  involuntarily  grew  pale  then  red,  then  she  said 
with  forced  calmness  : 

"  He  wants  me  to  be  his  Avife." 

"His  wife!"  exclaimed  Madame  la  Eoche,  "that  proud  old 
Monsieur  Noiret  wants  to  marry  you  ?  " 

"  The  condescension  of  the  otfer  had  not  struck  me,"  said 
Fanny,  hurt  at  this  view  of  the  subject. 

"  Nor  need  it,"  put  in  Charlotte  ;  "  my  god-daughter  could 
have  better  offers  any  day." 

"  If  I  had  not  been  a  fool,"  said  Marie,  "  I  might  have  been 
Madame  Noiret  years  ago.  Well,  child,  you  will  scarcely 
refuse  that,  will  you  1 " 

"  It  is  a  good  offer,"  approvingly  said  Madame  la  Roche. 

Fanny  heard  them  wdth  amazement ;  she  had  fancied  that 
they  would  be  indignant  and  angry,  and  their  complacency  in 
what  revolted  her,  was  a  blow  she  had  not  anticipated. 

"  So  you  all  wish  me  to  go  away  and  leave  y<m." 

"  I  do  not,  I  do  not,"  cried  Charles,  starting  up  from  his 
toys  on  the  floor,  and  springing  on  her  lap  ;  "  do  not  go, 
Fanny,  do  not." 

Fanny  kissed  him,  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break  ; 
for  it  seemed  to  her  in  the  bitterness  of  that  hour  as  if  that 
child's  affection  were  the  only  disinterested  liking  left  to  her. 
Love  had  forsaken  her,  and  old  affection  seemed  sordid  and 
low.     She  kissed  Charles,  dried  her  eyes,  and  said  coldly  : 

"  I  will  not  marry  Monsieur  Noiret." 


116  SEVEN    YEAK8. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Youth  is  severe ;  no  sad  knowledge  of  life,  no  bitter  ex- 
perience of  human  weakness  have  taught  it  the  virtue  and  the 
value  of  leniency. 

Fanny  was  hurt,  and  hurt  to  the  very  heart,  to  find  that 
Madame  la  Roche  and  the  two  women,  who  had  so  long  been 
her  devoted  and  faithful  friends,  could  wish  her  to  become 
Monsieur  Noiret's  wife.  She  forgot  the  advantages  they  saw 
in  this  union  for  her  ;  she  forgot  that  Marie  and  Charlotte  had 
never  looked  on  Baptiste  with  particular  favour,  and  that, 
more  or  less  advanced  in  life  as  they  all  three  were,  they 
could  not  think  so  much  about  Monsieur  Noiret's  wrinkles 
and  yeai's  as  she  did.  Indeed,  to  do  them  justice,  they  saw 
chiefly  that  ]\Ionsieur  Noiret  was  rich,  that  he  could  give 
Fanny  every  comf  )rt,  and  many  luxuries,  and  though  they 
were  also  conscious  that  by  this  fortunate  marriage  peace  and 
comfort  would  be  restored  to  their  own  narrowed  circle,  this 
thought  came  second,  even  as  Fanny's  happiness  came  first. 
But  the  advantages  they  prized  so  highly  Fanny  thought 
nothing  of,  and  she  could  see  but  one  cogent  motive  for  the 
open  or  indirect  methods  they  took  to  press  her  "  into  selling 
herself  to  an  old  man,"  as  she  bitterly  called  it. 

If  Madame  la  Roche  sighed  and  said  : 

"  My  dear,  he  would  make  you  so  comfortable." 

"  And  he  would  pay  the  rent,"  was  Fanny's  internal  reply. 

If  Charlotte  looked  grand  and  suggested  : 

"  Would  you  feel  nothing  to  hear  yourself  called  '  Mad- 
ame Noiret  1 '  " 

Fanny  moodily  thought : 

"  You  want  me  to  become  Madame  Noiret,  that  you,  as 
Madame  Noiret's  god-mother,  may  rule  Monsieur  Noiret's 
house." 

If  ]\farie  hinted  : 

"  Child,  show  your  spirit  to  that  low  Baptiste." 

Fanny  felt  angrily  : 

"  She  wants  to  drive  me  into  it,  that  she  may  remain  here 
alone  and  in  comfort  with  Madame  la  Roche."  In  short,  in 
every  w^ord  that  was  uttered,  in  every  look  that  was  given, 
Fanny  read  self-interest.  This  was  but  the  natural  reaction  of 
a  heart  too  long  indulged,  of  a  temper  that  had  never  been 
controlled,  of  a  happy  youth  that  had  never  known  trouble  or 
Borrow.     But  this  misanthropic  mood  could  not  last  long ; 


SEVEN    TEARS.  117 

Fanny  soon  returned  to  the  nntural  tenderness  of  her  heart 
and  gentleness  of  her  disposition,  and  then,  indeed,  no  longer 
looking  with  prejudiced  eyes  on  the  advice  she  got,  she  began 
to  endure  the  strange  torment  of  knowing  that  there  was  a 
remedy  to  the  many  cares  and  troubles  she  saw,  that  this 
remedy  lay  in  her  own  hands,  but  that  she  would  not  use  it. 

The  little  family  were  in  great  trouble ;  Madame  la 
Roche's  four  hundred  francs  a  year  and  Fanny's  earnings 
could  not  support  five  persons  ;  rent  was  coming  due,  and 
money  was  growing  sliort ;  distress  had  the  effect  of  subduing 
for  a  while  the  ceaseless  quarrel-s  of  Charlotte  and  Marie  ; 
they  grumbled  indeed,  but  in  low  dismal  voices  that  had 
scarcely  a  touch  of  the  old  liveliness.  Madame  la  Roche  said 
nothing,  but  she  looked  at  Charles,  the  only  merry  one 
amongst  them  all,  and  wiped  away  silent  tears  from  her  pale 
face.  To  look  on  and  to  kno\v,  "  with  a  word  I  could  make 
them  all  happy,  I  could  turn  that  grief  to  joy,"  was  a  trial 
indeed  :  a  trial  on  which  Monsieur  Noiret  had  shrewdly  cal- 
culated as  a  chance  of  success.  His  liking  for  Fanny,  which 
had  come  w^ith  her  beauty,  was  the  liking  old  men  feel  for 
young  girls.  He  had  too  much  sense  to  expect  her  to  be  fond 
of  hlm^but  he  had  too  little  iliith  in  the  love  of  youth  not  to 
think  tliat,  if  she  married  him,  he  would  easily  make  her  for- 
get Baptiste  and  all  such  early  dreams ;  a  handsome  dress 
now  and  then,  a  cashmere  shawl,  with  even  a  sprinkling  of 
diamonds  if  necessarv, — Monsieur  Noiret  had  his  mother's 
jewel-box  in  store, — were  in  his  opinion  palliatives  to  every 
feminine  ailliction,  especially  \\hen  the  sufferer  was  a  poor 
working  girl,  raised  from  the  obscurity  of  a  dressmaker  to  the 
dignity  of  a  young  bourgo(>ise. 

About  Monsieur  Noiret's  thoughts  Fanny  did  not  trouble 
herself  much ;  the  sad  faces  at  home  were  arguments  more 
powerful  than  the  temptation  of  his  gifts,  but  against  both 
rose  a  reproachful  image  :  the  sorrowful  look  of  Baptiste,  that 
seemed  to  follow  her  saying  :  '•  Did  you  leave  me  for  tliis  ?  " 

"  I  will  have  done  with  that  at  least,"  desperately  thought 
Fanny,  as  she  rose  on  the  Saturday  morning  that  was  to  see 
Baptiste  wedded  ;  "I  will  see  him  married  to  that  girl,  who- 
ever she  may  be,  and  forget  him  as  if  he  had  never  been." 

Without"^  breathing  a  word  of  her  purpose,  and  merely 
going  out  as  if  to  work  as  usual,  Fanny  took  her  way  to  the 
church  in  which  the  ceremony  was  to  be  performed.  It  was 
an  old  church  which  has  since  been  pulled  down  to  make  way 
for  modern  improvements  :  the  gloomy,  gothic  building  had 


118  SEVEN   YEARS. 

few  claims  to  beauty  of  any  kind ;  the  ceiling  was  low,  the 
flooi'  was  damp  and  dark  with  age ;  the  pictures  on  the  walls 
had  a  dingy  look  ;  the  altar  looked  poor  and  bare  ;  only  a  few 
old  men  and  women  were  listening  to  the  mass  which  a  priest 
was  saying.  Fanny  went  on  to  the  vestry,  and  calmly  asked 
the  sacristan  at  what  hour  Monsieur  Watt  was  to  be  married 

"  At  eleven,"  he  replied,  "  and  at  the  high  altar." 

She  thanked  him,  and  went  and  chose  her  place  in  the 
right  aisle, — a  chair  behind  one  of  the  pillars, — thence  she 
could  see,  unseen,  whatever  passed  in  the  nave. 

It  was  ten  ;  Fanny  had  only  an  hour  to  wait.  Only  !  is 
that  the  word,  indeed,  wherewith  to  describe  the  heart-sick 
expectation  with  which  she  sat  and  prayed  and  wept,  and  felt 
ten  times  over  that  it  was  best  for  her  to  fly  and  leave  the 
place,  and  not  see  again  the  faithless  lover  whom  she  had  no 
right  to  blame,  yet  could  not  absolve  ?  For  ever  came  the 
secret  cry  :  "  he  might  have  loved  me  moi'e  ;  he  need  not  have 
forsaken  me  so  soon." 

In  the  mean  while  preparations  for  the  forthcoming  cere- 
mony were  being  made  ;  the  altar  was  decorated  ;  velvet 
cushions  fi-inged  with  gold  were  placed  for  the  bridal  pair  ; 
velvet  chairs  were  set  in  rows  for  the  bridal  party  ;  eleven 
struck, — the  priest  in  white  vestments  issued  from  the  vestry, 
and  up  the  nave  a  rustling  of  silk  and  a  sound  of  steps  an- 
nounced the  approach  of  the  "  noce."  Fanny  felt  very  sick, 
she  closed  her  eyes,  and  leaning  her  head  against  the  cold  pil- 
lar, she  would  not  see.  At  length  she  gathered  courage. 
"  What  did  I  come  here  for,  and  lose  a  day's  work,  but  to 
know?  "  she  asked  of  herself,  and  opening  her  eyes  she  looked  at 
the  altar.  The  bride  and  bridegroom  were  kneeling  before  it : 
the  bride  was  a  pretty  girl  iu  white,  who  looked  all  the  pret- 
tier for  her  veil  and  orange  wreath,  but  Fanny  did  not  heed 
her  ;  with  fixed  amazed  eyes  and  parted  lips  she  looked  at  the 
bridegroom — a  short,  slim,  and  sallow  young  man,  not  in  the 
least  like  Baptiste. 

"  There  is  some  mistake,"  thought  Fanny,  relieved  at  not 
seeing  what  she  had  dreaded,  but  pained  at  a  delay  that  spoke 
of  a  new  pang  to  be  undergone,  But  as  she  cast  a  hasty  and 
impatient  look  on  the  bridal  party,  as  on  persons  concerned 
in  doings  that  no  longer  interested  her,  Fannji  could  scarcely 
repress  a  scream  on  perceiving  Baptiste  a  beholder,  like  her- 
self, of  the  marriage  ceremony. 

He  stood  grave  and  sad,  looking  on  with  folded  arms  and 
bent  look.     He  was  attired   in  holiday  black,  and  was  evi- 


SEVEN    YEARS.  119 

dently  a  member  of  the  bridal  party.  The  truth  flashed  across 
Fanny's  mhid.  The  bridegroom  was  his  cousin  and  name- 
sake, of  whom  she  had  often  heard  him  speak,  and  who  had 
probably  come  down  to  Paris  to  get  married.  The  bride 
might  now  be  who  and  what  she  liked;  Fanny's  heartbeat, 
her  head  swam,  and  leaning  her  forehead  on  the  chair  before 
her,  she  lost  consciousness.  The  sound  of  voices  behind  hei 
wakened  the  young  girl. 

"  She  is  pi-aying  !  "  whispered  one  voice. 

"  She  is  sleeping,"  said  another  voice,  in  a  loader  key, 
"  and  it  is  a  shame  to  come  to  a  church  to  sleep  in  it." 

With  a  start  Fanny  looked  up  ;  the  lights  on  the  altar 
were  extinguished  :  bride,  bridegroom,  and  bridal  party  had 
vanished.  It  was  as  if  she  had  dreamed  it  all,  so  quiet  and 
silent  was  now  the  old  church.  But  too  vivid  for  a  dream 
rose  before  her  the  scene  she  had  witnessed.  Fanny  did  not  even 
go  to  the  vestry  to  inquire :  there  was  no  need  ;  Baptiste  was 
not  married,  she  knew  it,  she  felt  it ;  she  thought  herself  fool- 
ish and  mad  to  have  even  for  a  moment  believed  that,  within 
a  month  of  their  parting,  he  could  have  thought  of  another 
woman,  and,  witliout  heeding  the  owners  of  the  two  voices 
who  had  passed  such  strictures  on  her  supposed  slumbers,  she 
sent  a  fervent  thanksgiving  to  the  Almighty,  then  rose  from 
her  chair,  and  swiftly  left  the  church. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Light  and  giddy  with  feverish  joy,  Fanny  skipped  dow^n 
the  church  steps,  like  one  treading  on  air.  She  felt  thoroughly 
happy  ;  she  had  not  a  thought,  not  a  care  ;  everything  was 
bright  and  cheerful,  h-ova  the  grey  sky  that  lowered  above  the 
house  roofs,  to  the  muddy  pavement  along  which  she  tripped 
light  and  gay  as  a  little  fairy. 

On  her  way  home  Faimy  passed  a  toy-shop  ;  she  had 
passed  it  going,  but  for  ol)vious  reasons  she  had  not  seen  it ; 
now  she  saw  it,  and  thought  of  poor  little  Charles  at  home, 
who  had  said  the  evening  before  : 

"  Grandmamma,,  why  do  I  not  have  any  toys  now  ?  "  and 
of  Madame  la  Roche's  sad  answer  :  <'  Because  we  are  poor, 
child." 

Fanny  thought  of  this,  and  her  heart  was  full.  She  put 
her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  felt  a  five-franc  piece  in  it.  It  was 
more  than  enough  ;  Fanny  walked  into  the  shop,  and  delib- 


120  SEVEN    YEAES.. 

erately  purchased  a  horse  and  car,  for  twenty-five  sous.  She 
walked  out  thinking  how  pleased  Charles  would  be,  and  how 
kind  Madame  la  Roche  would  enjoy  his  pleasure ;  then  she 
wondered  if  she  could  not  please  her  too.  in  a  more  direct 
fashion.  She  looked  in  at  a  pastry-cook's  ;  that  was  Madame 
la  Roche's  favourite  tart  in  the  window, 

Fanny  could  not  resist  it,  she  walked  in,  and  came  out 
with  the  tart,  which  proved  a  more  expensive  purchase  than 
even  the  horse  and  car.  "  But  neither  Marie  nor  Charlotte 
will  touch  a  mite  of  it,"  tliought  Fanny,  "  they  will  leave  it 
all  to  Madame  la  Roche  and  the  child  ;  what  shall  I  brinw  to 
them  ?  " 

She  hit  on  no  hotter  expedient  than  to  walk  in  to  the  char- 
cutier's  shop.  The  charcutier  bears  but  a  faint  likeness  to  his 
English  brother,  the  dealer  in  pork,  bacon,  and  ham.  The 
charcutier  sells  neither  butter  nor  poultry,  and  he  scorns  eggs 
and  rabbits.  His  shop  is  adorned,  without,  by  fresco  paint- 
ings of  what  may  be  called  the  Dutch  school.  Plump 
sausages  and  hams,  with  the  most  tempting  mixture  of  fat  and 
lean,  show  the  triumph  of  the  painter's  art.  Within,  mirrors, 
marbles,  and  delicious  viands  fulfil  the  promis-s  held  forth 
without.  The  buxom  charcutit'rt^,  with  her  white  cap,  rosy 
cheeks,  red  lips,  round  figure,  and  white  apron  and  tucker,  is 
herself  a  fair  proof  of  tlie  excellence  and  solidity  of  the  goods 
in  which  she  deals.  These  are  most  seduciugly  displayed  on 
the  white  marb'e  counter  behind  which  she  stands  smiling. 
Potted  meats,  quivering  jellies,  compounds  of  pork  and  veal, 
mysterious  meat  cheeses,  fair  pink  sausages  ready  for  the  hiss- 
ing frying-pan,  tender  pork  cutlets,  dinde  tarcie,  cold  veal,  all 
lie  there  before  you  adorned — as  if  such  charms  needed  height- 
ening— with  pinlc  paper  roses  and  white  paper  frills,  daintily 
cut.  Of  the  strings  of  l)laek  pudding  hanging  about,  of  the 
trophies  in  the  shape  of  goodly  hams  M'hich  the  walls  display, 
of  petit  lard,  even  though  it  come  from  Strasbourg,  we  say 
nothing  :  they  are  there  to  fill  up.  The  counter  and  its  dain- 
ties will  ever  absorb  the  love  and  attention  of  the  gently  gor- 
mandizing sons  and  daughters  of  Paris. 

Into  such  a  palace  did  Fanny  enter.  Dinde  farcie  was  her 
extravagant  choice,  and  when  she  left  the  shop  she  had  ten 
sous  in  her  pocket.  But  Fanny  was  not  in  a  mood  to  trouble 
herself  about  money  :  she  was  in  a  temper  to  defy  care,  to 
laugh  at  the  future,  to  rejoice  in  the  present,  and  make  those 
around  her  rejoice.  Tired  and  laden,  but  glad  with  all  that, 
Fanny  went  home. 


SEVKN    YEARS.  121 

It  was  the  child  who  admitted  her.  On  seeing  the  horse 
and  car  he  uttered  a  scream  of  delight,  at  once  took  possession 
of  them,  and  ran  off  with  his  prize  to  the  room  of  Madame  la 
Roche.  She  came  out  amazed  to  see  who  had  lieen  so  gener- 
ous, and  found  Fanny  in  the  act  of  laying  the  tart  on  a  plate. 
She  caught  a  glimpse  too  of  the  dinde  farcie,  and  unable  to 
understand  the  meaning  of  all  this,  she  asked  with  mild  sur 
prise  : 

"  My  dear  child,  what  has  brought  you  back  from  your 
work  1 '"' 

"  I  did  not  go  to  work,"  said  Fanny,  blushing. 

"  And  how  did  you  get  those  things  1  Who  gave  them 
to  you  1  " 

"  I  bought  them,"  answered  Fanny,  hanging  down  her  head, 

Madame  la  Roche  felt  and  looked  bewildered,  and  Char- 
lotte and  Marie,  who  now  caiue  out,  felt  and  looked  like  their 
mistress.  Charles  alone,  who  was  whipping  his  horse  and  car 
about  the  room,  shouted  and  laughed  without  surprise. 

"  1  know  you  like  this,  Madame,"  continued  Fanny,  point- 
ing to  the  tart,  "  so  I  brought  it  to  you.  This,"  she  added, 
designating  the  meat,  "  is  for  Marie  and  my  god-mother.  It 
is  long  since  we  had  a  treat.  I  hof>e  I  have  not  done  wrong  ? 
I  do  not  think  1  have." 

"  There  is  no  harm  in  it,"  despond ingly  replied  Madame 
la  Roche,  whose  pale  cheek  bore  the  traces  of  recent  tears, 
"  but  this  is  scarcidy  a  day  for  rejoicing." 

"  I  do  not  suppose  Fanny  thinks  we  are  going  to  eat  meat 
on  Saturday,  a  fast-day,"  gravely  observed  Charlotte. 

"  I  never  thought  about  that,"  replied  Fanny,  disconcerted 
at  having  forgotten  it. 

"  And  I  think,"  said  Marie,  "  I  think  it  is  very  lucky  the 
landlord,  who  lias  just  called  in  to  insult  Madame  because  she 
cannot  pay  her  rent  the  very  day  it  is  due,  I  think  it  is  lucky 
he  did  not  meet  Fanny  coming  up  the  staircase  laden  with 
toys,  and  cakes,  and  tarts,  and  capons,  and  turkeys,  instead  of 
being  at  her  work  like  a  sensible  girl." 

"  Do  not  be  severe,"  sighed  Madane  la  Rcjche,  "  the  poor 
child  meant  kindly,  and  that  is  my  favourite  tart,  and  you 
know  how  fond  you  are  of  dinde  farcie  ;  and  look  at  Charles, 
the  dear  little  fellow  is  beside  himself  with  joy.  She  meant  it 
kindly,  and  if  we  had  only  money  for  the  rent,  I  dare  say  we 
should  enjoy  it  very  much." 

But  she  sighed  again  as  she  came  to  the  close  of  this  long 
speech,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

6 


122  SEVEN    YEARS. 

The  joy  of  Fanny  was  considerably  damped  by  the  way 
in  which  her  treat  was  received.  She  put  her  dainties  away 
without  a  word,  whilst  Marie  said  with  marked  emphasis  : 

"  Have  you  got  any  money,  child  ?  " 

"  1  have  not,"  said  Fanny, 

"  No  more  have  we,"  austerely  said  Charlotte.  "  A  strange 
time,  my  dear  child,  for  such  extravagant  fancies,  and  meat  on 
a  Saturday." 

"I  have  got  a  few  francs  left,"  mildly  put  in  Madame  la 
Roche. 

Fanny  sighed  deeply.  The  weight  of  care  she  had  awhile 
forgotten  sank  on  her  anew.  Baptiste  was  not  married,  true; 
Baptiste  was  still  fond  of  her,  she  felt  sure  of  it :  but  grim 
poverty  faced  her,  and  the  helpless  women  and  the  uncon- 
scious child,  none  the  less. 

She  rose,  and  said  resignedly  : 

"  I  shall  go  and  \\  ork ;  better  half  a  day's  work  than  none." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Fanny  was  ready  to  go  out  the  next  morning,  when  a 
sharp  ring  was  heard  at  the  door :  she  went  and  opened  :  it 
was  the  rough  and  grisly  porter,  with  his  cotton  handkerchief 
tied  round  his  heavy  Ijrow^s. 

"  He  is  come  about  the  rent,"  thought  Fanny,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot ;  but  she  none  the  less  civilly  requested  the 
porter  to  come  in. 

"  Why  should  I  come  in  1  "  he  asked  suspiciously.  "  I 
have  only  come  up  to  tell  you  a  bit  of  my  mind  ;  people  who 
are  so  grand — " 

"  Do  not,  pray  do  not,"  interrupted  Fanny,  casting  a  timid 
look  tow^ards  the  inner  rooms,  and  evidently  afraid  lest 
Madame  la  Roche  should  hear ;  "  I  hope  yet  that  we  shall 
find  the  means  of  paying  that  money,  though  God  knows 
how,"  she  added  in  a  low  despairing  voice. 

"  You  had  better  find  the  means  quickly  then,"  said  the 
porter,  roughly,  "  for  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  Mademoi- 
selle is  in  the  liouse,  and  means  to  pay  you  a  visit." 

"  JNIademoiselle  !  who  is  Mademoiselle  ?  "  asked  Fanny. 

"  The  landlord's  sister,  and  let  me  tell  you  that,  though 
she  makes  less  noise  than  her  brother,  who  storms  and  raves, 
yhe  is  a  great  deal  more  troublesome  than  he  is.  That  is  all 
I  had  to  say.     Good  morning."     He  nodded  and  left  her  dis- 


SEVEN    YEAKS.  123 

tracted  at  the  prospect  of  the  coming  visit.  She  went  to 
Charlotte  and  Marie,  and  told  them  what  the  porter  had  said ; 
but  they  could  give  her  no  counsel.  Their  calm  lives  had 
been  spent  in  the  peaceful  Ijosoin  of  prosperity  ;  they  knew 
nothing  of  poverty ;  they  had  no  practical  experience  of  debts, 
or  of  the  poor  ways  and  means  by  which  troublesome  appli- 
cations may  be  warded  off.  To  pay  what  was  owing  seemed 
the  only  plan  offered  to  them. 

"  But  I  have  got  no  money,"  said  Fanny. 

"  No,  child,  and  you  never  will  have  whilst  you  go  and 
buy  toys  and  cakes,  and  capons  and  turkeys,"  said  Marie. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  what  possessed  her  yesterday,"  re- 
marked Charlotte.  "  She  is  as  stingy  as  can  be  on  other 
days,  but  yesterday  being  a  fast  day,  she  must  needs  buy 
dinde  farcie." 

"  Do  not,  pray  do  not,"  entreated  Fanny,  "  I  hear  a  step 
on  the  staircase,  it  must  be  that  lady  !  What  shall  we  do  1 
wdiat  shall  we  do  ?  " 

A  mild  modest  ring  was  heard  even  as  she  spoke ;  her 
face  red  and  burning  with  shame,  Fanny  went  and  opened. 

It  was  Mademoiselle,  the  landlord's  sister,  and  the  joint 
proprietress  of  the  house.  A  meeker  and  more  demure-look- 
ing lady  Fanny  had  never  seen.  Her  fair  hair  was  smoothed 
away  from  her  high  and  white  forehead ;  her  drooping  lids 
ix^odestly  veiled  her  blue  eyes ;  decorum  was  written  in  her 
grave  and  mild  features,  in  her  slightly  bending  figure,  in  her 
subdued  manners. 

"  Madame  la  Roche,"  she  said,  mildly. 

"  She  will  come  presently,"  faltered  Fanny  ;  "  will  you 
sit  down  and  wait  1 " 

"  With  pleasure,"  sedately  replied  Mademoiselle.  She 
took  a  chair,  and  looked  benevolently  at  Charlotte  and  Marie. 

"  A  fine  morning,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  very,"  replied  Marie,  brightening  at  this  amicable 
opening  ;  and  she  kindly  added  :  "  Madame  la  Roche  will  be 
pleased  to  see  Mademoiselle  :  the  gentleman  who  came  yes- 
terday was  not  civil." 

"  Indeed  :  "  said  Mademoiselle.  "  Ah,  well,  my  brother 
is  a  little  noisy  at  times  ;  I  like  to  do  things  quietly." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Marie,  "  so  much  better ;  especially," 
she  added,  with  her  most  gracious  smile,  "  when  people, 
though  not  able,  are  willing." 

"To  be  sure,  quite  willing,"  said  Mademoiselle. 
"  Most  willing  !  "  emphatically  echoed  Marie. 


124  SEVEN   YEAK8. 

"  We  shall  settle  this  little  matter  without  trouble,"  said 
Mademoiselle,  casting  a  quiet  look  around  her.  "  I  under- 
stand Madame  la  Roche  has  been  well  off.  I  have  no  doubt 
she  has  kept  some  lady-like  trinkets,  or  scraps  of  lace,  that 
may  help  us  to  come  to  a  proper  understanding." 

Marie  stared,  but  did  not  answer.  Mademoiselle  con- 
tinued : 

*•  It  is  a  settled  plan  with  my  brother  and  me  never  to  allow 
rent  to  run  on  ;  but  whereas  he  insists  on  money,  I  am  satisfied 
with  valuables.  A  jewel,  a  watch,  a  chain,  nay,  even  a  piece 
of  furniture  will  pay  a  quarter's  rent:  if  the  value  exceeds 
the  amount  due,  it  is  deducted  from  the  next  quarter." 

"  If  Madame  la  Roche  had  such  valuables,"  replied  Marie, 
firing  up,  "  she  would  not  wait  to  be  asked  for  her  rent  in 
order  to  pay  it.  She  would  sell  and  pledge  them,  and  no  one 
would  know  her  poverty." 

"  Then  if  Madame  la  Roche  cannot  pay  the  rent  we  must 
part,"  suavely  said  Mademoiselle ;  "  we  never  allow  rent  to 
run  on." 

Trembling  with  indignation,  Marie  was  going  to  answer, 
when  Madame  la  Roche  appeared. 

With  quiet  dignity  she  bowed  to  Mademoiselle,  and  re- 
quested to  know  her  errand.  Mademoiselle  mildly  answered 
that  she  had  come  for  the  rent. 

"  I  have  no  money  now,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  And  no  valuables  1 "  asked  Mademoiselle. 

"  None." 

"  Then  I  am  soriy  for  it :  we  must  part." 

"  And  you  will  detain  the  furniture  1  "  said  Madame  la 
Roche. 

"  I  see  no  other  means." 

"  Very  well,  Madame,"  replied  Madame  la  Roche,  in  a 
tone  that  said  :  "  Your  errand  is  over." 

Mademoiselle  felt  it,  for  she  rose  and  cast  around  a  look 
that  was  scarcely  pleasant  spite  its  meekness.  Fanny,  who 
had  looked  on  with  helpless  calmness,  opened  the  door  to  let 
her  out,  and  thereby  spared  IMonsieur  Noiret  the  trouble  of 
ringing.  That  gentleman  and  Mademoiselle  exchanged  excla- 
mations on  meeting  :  they  were  acquainted,  it  appeared. 

"How  very  fortunate  !"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  "I  have 
been  looking  for  you  these  three  weeks.  Pray  allow  me  to 
exchange  a  few  words  with  you — I  am  sure  my  good  friend 
Madame  la  Roche  will  raise  no  objection." 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  125 

Madame  la  Roche  said  he  might  command  her  place,  and 
was  going  to  leave  the  room,  but  he  would  not  allow  it. 

"  It  is  no  secret,"  he  said,  with  his  ready  smile,  "  only  a 
bit  of  news  for  Mademoiselle.  I  have  seen  your  nephew,"  he 
added,  turning  towards  her. 

Mademoiselle's  l)lue  eyes  lit  with  a  fiery  spark. 

"  Where — how — when  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  In  the  Palais  Royal,  with  three  young  fellows,  a  month 
ago." 

The  intelligence  brought  no  great  amount  of  pleasure  oi 
sweetness  to  Mademoiselle's  face.  Her  nephew,  a  spend 
thrift,  a  gambler,  and  a  runaway,  was  a  thorn  in  her  side,  a 
sore  spot  in  her  life. 

"  I  shall  stop  him  yet,"  she  said,  clenching  tightly  an 
ample  reticule  which  she  carried  about  on  rent  days,  and  which 
her  lodgers  knew  well.  "  I  shall  stop  him  yet.  And  you, 
Madame,"  she  added,  looking  sourly  at  Madame  la  Roche, 
"  please  to  bear  my  last  words  in  mind,  and  to  have  those 
eighty  francs  by  to-morrow  morning.    No  rents  run  on  here." 

"Dear  me!"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  seeming  surprised, 
"  would  you  prefer  the  eighty  francs  to-day  1  "  Madenioiselle 
looked  at  him. 

"  Of  course  I  should,"  she  at  length  answered. 

Monsieur  Noiret  put  four  Napoleons  in  her  hand.  Mad- 
emoiselle counted  and  weighed  them,  gave  him  a  receipt  in 
exchange,  and  walked  out  without  a  word. 

"  1  am  so  glad  I  was  able  to  relieve  you  of  that  troublesome 
woman,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret  to  Madame  la  Roche,  "  she  is 
a  leech.  Did  she  not  propose  purchasing  or  exchanging 
something  1  " 

"  She  did  !  "  cried  Marie,  who  was  bursting  with  wrath, 
"  she  did.  As  if  Madame  kept  valuables  when  she  wanted 
money  !  " 

"  Monsieur  Noiret,  I  am  obliged  to  you,"  said  Madame  la 
Roche,  whose  tears  were  flowing,  "  but  God  only  knows  when 
I  shall  be  able  to  pay  you." 

"  A  trifle,  a  trifle !  "  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  glancing  at 
Fanny  ;  "  I  came  at  this  early  hour  on  account  of  that  young 
creature." 

Fanny,  who  was  sitting  apart  with  Charles  on  her  lap, 
looked  up  on  being  thus  indirectly  addressed. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  "  that  Madame  des 
Granges,  a  friend  of  mine,  has  asked  me  for  a  clever  seam- 


126  SEVEN   YEAKS. 

stress,  and  as  I  believe  her  terms  are  better  than  those  Fanny 
gets,  I  came  early  to  give  our  little  friend  the  intimation/' 

Fanny's  face  cleared  at  once.  If  Monsieur  Noiret  came 
to  procure  her  work,  must  it  not  be  that  he  had  given  up  thai 
odious  plan  of  marriage  ?  She  thanked  him  with  a  warmth 
that  made  him  smile,  and  receiving  from  him  a  line  for 
Madame  des  Granges,  she  exclaimed  eagerly  that  she  would 
go  at  once ;  and  at  once,  glad  perhaps  to  escape  from  his 
presence,  she  went. 

The  tide  had  turned  to  prosperity.  Madame  des  Granges 
received  Fanny  very  favourably  ;  agreed  to  pay  her  one-third 
more  than  she  received  from  the  dressmaker  who  gave  her  oc- 
casional work,  and  finally  secured  her  services  for  the  next 
day. 

A  weight  of  care  seemed  removed  from  Fanny  as  she  came 
home  that  evening.  The  rent  was  paid  ;  three  months'  peace 
was  secured ;  she  had  found  profitable  work  ;  and,  crowning 
blessing  of  all,  Baptiste  was  not  married.  No  wonder  she 
climbed  up  the  four  steep  flights  of  stairs  with  a  light  and 
happy  heart. 

She  found  Madame  la  Roche  in  smiles,  and  Charlotte  and 
Marie  a;racious. 

"  Anything  new  ?  "  she  asked  gaily. 

"  No,"  replied  Charlotte,  "  nothing,  unless  that  Monsieur 
Noiret  is  to  come  this  evening." 

Fanny  felt  the  blow,  but  tried  to  smile. 

'•  A  most  extraordinary  piece  of  good  fortune  that  he 
should  have  dropped  in  just  in  time  to  pay  Madame's  rent," 
said  Marie. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  to  lend  Madame  the  money,"  cor- 
rected Charlotte. 

"  You  may  call  that  lending,"  said  Marie,  strongly,  "  I  do 
not." 

"  I  do,"  said  Charlotte ;  "  Madame  would  scorn  it  other- 
wise." 

"  I  am  past  scorning,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  with  a  resig- 
nation not  free  from  bitterness,"  "  the  hand  of  God  is  on  me, 
and  I  yield  to  what  I  cannot  prevent ;  I  submit  to  humilia- 
tions I  have  no  right  and  no  power  to  reject." 

Fanny  was  moved  to  the  very  heart. 

"  Dear  Madame,"  said  she,  going  up  to  her  former  protec- 
tress, and  taking  her  hands  as  she  sat  down  at  her  feet;  "  dear 
Madame,  all  is  not  over  :  if  Monsieur  Noiret  has  been  so  kind 
as  to  lend  you  that  money,  cannot  I  work  and  pay  it  back  ?  " 


SEVEN   TEABS.  127 

"  Fudge,"  said  Marie,  "  j-ou  cannot." 

This  was  but  too  true.  Fauny  felt  the  sting  and  started, 
and  vainly  tried  to  look  brave. 

"  I  know  what  Fanny  can  do,"  mildly  said  Charlotte  ;  "  she 
can  give  IMousieur  Noiret  his  answer,  and  not  have  him  coming 
here  any  more  and  insulting  Madame." 

Fanny  turned  very  pale  :  it  seemed  as  if  a  net  were  draw- 
ing round  her,  and  tightening  her  on  every  side. 

Madame  la  Roche  looked  up,  and  said  with  some  dignity  : 
"  Charlotte  and  Marie,  we  will  have  no  more  of  this.  Mon- 
sieur Noiret  lent  me  that  money  of  his  own  accord  :  I  beg  that 
he  may  come  here  or  not,  at  his  pleasure,  and  that  you  will 
not  tease  or  torment  Fanny.  She  has  said  she  would  not  mar- 
ry him  :   that  is  enough." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  so,  Madame  ?  "  asked  Fanny,  brighten- 
ing with  sudden  hope. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  hesitatingly  replied  Madame  la  Roche,  "  I 
have  not  told  him  so,  but  he  has  given  me  to  understand  that 
he  would  like  to  come  and  see  me  now  and  then ;  I  have  no 
doubt  you  will  have  more  than  one  opportunity  of  letting  him 
see  and  feel  your  meaning." 

The  head  of  Fauny  sank  despondently  on  her  bosom,  she 
clasped  her  hands  with  a  troubled  look,  that  did  not  escape 
Marie  or  (;harlotte  :  the  poor  girl  was  beginning  to  hesitate, 
but  she  struggled  against  her  own  weakness,  and  saying  with 
assumed  calmness,  *■'  I  shall  never  be  Monsieur  Noiret's  wife," 
she  rose  and  prepared  the  evening  meal. 

Monsieur  Noiret's  plans  were  carefully  laid  :  he  had  calcu- 
lated his  chances  well.  He  would  not  tease  or  torment  Fanny, 
but  he  would  not  let  her  forget  him  either.  To  be  an  invisi- 
ble benefactor,  dropping  a  quarter's  rent,  and  then  vanishing 
conveniently,  until  he  could  again  be  useful,  by  no  means 
formed  part  of  Monsieur  Noiret's  schemes. 

He  came  that  evening,  and  spent  a  quiet  hour  with  Madame 
la  Roche.  He  scarcely  looked  at  Fanny,  who  took  care  to 
keep  apart.  When  he  spoke  to  her,  his  manner  was  not  that 
of  an  accepted  or  of  a  rejected  lover.  It  was  both  cool  and 
calm,  and  gave  her  no  right  to  complain  or  show  mistrust.  At 
nine  he  rose  and  took  his  leave. 

"  Good  evening,  my  dear  Madame,"  said  he,  kissing  the 
hand  of  Madame  la  Roche,  "  I  shall  soon  call  again.  Good 
evening,  Charlotte.  Good  evening,  Marie,  we  are  old  friends, 
eh  !     Good  night,  little  Fauny.     I  shall  soon  call  again," 

The   door  had   scarcely  closed   upon  him,  and  Fanny  had 


128  SEVEN   YEAES. 

scarcely  broathetl,  relieved   at  his   departure,  when   Charlotte 
said  thoughtfully  : 

"  A  fiue  old  gentleman  !  " 

"  Old  !  "  echoed  Marie,  "Monsieur  Noiret  is  quite  a  young 
man." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  smiled  Charlotte,  "  he  is  an  old  friend  of 
yours." 

"  I  cannot  allow  this,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  distracted- 
ly, "  I  really  cannot.  If  you  must  needs  quarrel  about  some- 
thing, pray  look  out  for  another  bone  besides  Monsieur  Noiret, 
to  whom  we  are  so  much  indebted." 

"  Madame  has  already  spoken  of  my  biting  and  snarling," 
said  Marie,  looking  injured,  "  but  now  she  calls  me  a  dog  in 
plain  speech.  I  will  bear  much,  but  not  this,  and  I  will 
starve." 

"  Supper  is  ready,"  drily  said  Fanny,  And  Marie  forgot 
her  resolve  to  starve,  and  sat  down  to  her  evening  meal  just  as 
usual, 

Fanny  alone  did  not  eat.  She  said  she  was  not  hungry, 
and  she  spoke  the  truth.  It  had  been  her  task  to  let  Monsieur 
Noiret  out  that  evening,  and  as  he  turned  round  and  bade  her 
a  last  good  night,  he  had  given  her  a  smile  and  a  look  Fanny 
could  not  mistake. 

"  God  help  me,"  she  thought ;  "  we  are  falling  into  that 
man's  power,  and  I  am  the  price  he  wants,     God  help  me." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Monsieur  Noiret  came  often  ;  he  soon  came  every  even- 
ing. No  more  was  said  about  his  visits  in  the  little  family. 
Madame  la  Roche  did  not  mention  the  subject  to  Fanny,  nor 
did  Fanny  broach  it  with  her.  Even  Charlotte  and  Marie 
proved  studiously  discreet,  and  did  not  tread  on  forbidden 
ground. 

The  visits  of  Monsieur  Noiret  did  not  add,  however,  to 
the  common  prosperity.  Charlotte  and  Marie  could  find 
nothing  to  do,  and  what  were  Madame  la  Roche's  four  hundred 
francs  a  year,  and  Fanny's  daily  earnings,  to  support  a  family 
with  ?     Not  half  enough  ! 

The  young  girl's  health  and  spirits  sank  under  the  pressure 
of  so  many  cares  and  so  much  trouble.  Madame  la  Roche  re- 
verted uneasily  to  her  altered  looks,  but  Monsieur  Noiret  gal- 
lantly declared  that  Fanny  looked  as  pretty  as  ever.     Beyond 


SEVEN   YEARS.  129 

this  polite  speech  he  did  nothing  to  lighten  her  anxiety.  His 
continued  presence  only  irritated  the  young  girl,  and  at  length, 
unable  to  bear  any  longer  the  suspense  in  which  it  kept  her, 
Bhe  one  day  asked  Madame  la  Roche  if  she  had  given  Monsieur 
Noiret  her  answer. 

"  My  dear,"  hesitatingly  said  Madame  la  Roche.  "  Mon- 
sieur Noiret  told  nie  he  was  not  in  a  hurry,  so  what  could  I  do  ?  " 

"  Then  perhaps  he  comes  here  on  mj  account,"  said  Fanny, 
moodily. 

"  3Iy  dear,  we  cannot  tell  him  not  to  come,"  uneasily  re- 
plied Madame  la  Roche.  "  I  hope  you  will  do  nothing  indis- 
creet, he  is  our  only  friend  now." 

"  I  shall  say  and  do  nothing,  Madame,"  resignedly  replied 
Fanny.      "  This  is  your  house,  not  mine." 

"And  how  much  money  have  you  got  now,  child  ?  "  hesi- 
tatingly asked  Madame  la  Roche. 

"  I  have  none,"  answered  Fanny  ;  "  Madame  des  Granges 
said  to-day  she  would  pay  it  all  in  a  lump." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Madame  la  Roche,  looking  startled, 
"  that  is  not  convenient  for  us,  is  it  ?  " 

"  No,  Madame,  it  is  not." 

"  I  have  not  a  franc  left ;  how  shall  we  manage  ?  " 

"  We  must  try  and  get  credit,"  said  Fanny,  making  a 
strong  eiFort. 

"  I  wonder  if  Monsieur  Noiret  would  lend  me  any  more 
money,"  doubtingly  observed  Madame  la  Roche. 

Fanny  did  not  reply.  What  right  had  she  to  say,  "  you 
must  not  borrow  from  him  ?  "  None.  She  submitted,  but 
with  a  heart  heavy  with  forebodings.  Monsieur  Noiret  came 
in  the  evening.  What  passed  between  him  and  Madame  la 
Roche,  Fanny  only  knew  the  next  morning  when  that  lady  put 
a  gold  piece  in  her  hand,  and  said  sadly  :  ''  My  dear,  make  this 
go  as  far  as  you  can  ;  it  is  all  I  shall  ever  get,  for  it  is  all  I 
shall  ever  ask  for  from  that  quarter," 

"Twenty  francs,"  thought  Fanny,  "and  we  are  four  with- 
out the  child  !  "  Careful  as  she  was,  she  could  not  make  the 
money  last  more  than  a  few  days ;  her  own  money,  though  it 
had  reached  the  lump  stage,  did  not  make  an  amount  sufficient 
to  satisfy  the  lady  who  employed  her, — for  being  one  of  those 
kind  persons  who  like  to  manage  the  affairs  of  the  poor,  she 
patted  Fanny's  cheek,  and  told  her  benevolently  that  she  was 
saving  it  up  for  her,  lest  she  shoukl  spend  it  in  frivolities. 

"  Well,  but  you  are   not  going  to  stand  that,  are   you  ?  " 
asked  Marie  of  Fanny,  one  evening. 
6* 


130  SEVEN   YEARS. 

"  It  is  hard,"  replied  the  young  girl,  "  but  I  am  afraid  of 
losing  the  custom." 

"  Custom,  indeed,  a  pretty  custom  !  You  will  never  do  in 
the  world,  child." 

Fanny  did  not  answer,  and  Marie  took  a  resolve,  on  which 
she  forthwith  acted  without  thinking  it  necessary  to  apprize 
Fanny  of  her  intention.  Under  pretence  of  calling  on  an  old 
friend  she  went  out,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  the  house  of 
Madame  des  Granges,  who  so  kindly  kept  Fanny's  money  in  a 
lump  for  her. 

Madame  des  Granges  rented  a  very  handsome  apartment 
in  a  stylish  house  ;  she  kept  a  footman,  who  was  cook  as  well, 
and  maid-of-all-work ;  and  a  lady's-maid,  who  dressed  grandly, 
and  was  suspected  to  be  a  governess  on  the  sly  to  the  five  young 
Des  Granges.  It  was  this  potentate  who  received  Marie,  and 
recognizing  her  for  having  seen  her  once  or  twice  with  Fanny, 
she  graciously  asked  what  she  wauted. 

"  Only  to  say  a  few  words  to  Madame,"  replied  Marie,  with 
a  prim  smile. 

The  lady's-maid  feared  her  mistress  was  not  visible,  but 
would  inquire.  She  vanished  behind  a  damask  hanging,  and 
presently  returned,  requesting  Marie  to  follow  her  in  to 
Madame's  bed-room. 

Madame  was  dressing,  and  her  maid  remained  in  the  room 
to  assist  in  her  toilet.    In  a  gracious  voice  Madame  des  Granges 
nodding  at  Marie,  said  amiably  : 

"  ^^y  good  woman,  what  do  you  want  with  me  at  this  hour?  " 

Some  people  like  being  called  good ;  others  have  an  objec- 
tion to  it.  To  the  latter  class  Marie  belonged.  "  She  might 
be  a  good  woman,  or  she  might  not,  but  what  was  that  to 
Madame  des  Granges,  or  any  other  Madame  ?  Nothing,  that 
she  knew  of."  Bristling  up,  therefore,  with  a  sense  of  injured 
dignity,  yet  smiling  a  grim  smile  that  vainly  tried  to  be  sweet, 
Marie  replied  : 

"  I  beg  pardon  for  disturbing  Madame  at  this  hour ;  but  I 
believe  Madame  has  been  so  kind  to  my  Fanny  as  to  keep  her 
money  in  a  lump  for  her." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Madame  des  Granges,  with  an  approving 
look,  "  I  always  do.  Young  people  in  that  class  of  life  are  so 
improvident ;  they  spend  their  money  in  such  trifling,  foolish 
things,  that  on  principle  I  keep  it  up  for  them.  You  may, 
therefore,  set  your  mind  at  ease,  my  good  woman  ;  what  Fanny 
has  said  to  you  is  quite  correct,  I  keep  her  money  in  a  lump 
for  her." 


SEVEN   TEAES.  131 

"  Very  kind  of  Madame,"  said  Marie,  "  but  if  Madame 
would  not  mind  giving  me  Fanny's  money,  I  could  put  it  out 
at  interest," — this  was  a  gratuitous  fib,  but  Marie  was  not 
scrupulous, — "  at  a  good  interest,  I  mean.  It  is  Fanny's  own 
wish, — only  the  silly  thing  did  not  not  like  mentioning  it  to 
Madame, — as  if  it  could  make  any  difi'erence  to  Madame 
whether  the  money  was  in  her  drawer  or  in  a  bank." 

This  was  most  provoking,  and  Madame  des  Granges  was 
fairly  exasperated  ;  for  this  kind  lady  had  the  habit  of  making 
lumps  of  all  the  money  she  could  decently  keep  from  trades- 
people and  servants.  The  maid  who  was  fastening  her  flounced 
silk  dress  knew  the  meaning  of  the  word  '  lump ;  '  the  man- 
servant, who  was  then  listening  behind  the  door,  knew  it ; 
every  one  knew  it  who  had  anything  to  do  with  Madame  des 
Granges,  and  that  she  should  be  compelled  to  refund  a  '  lump,' 
howsoever  insignificant,  was  so  dangerous  a  precedent,  that 
she  could  not  contemplate  it  without  alarm  and  displeasure. 

"  I  am  very  much  surprised,"  she  said  drawing  herself  up 
with  great  majesty ;  "  I  am  surprised,  indeed,  at  so  strange  a 
proceeding ;  but  ingratitude  is  the  common  reward  of  benevo- 
lence like  mine.  You  will  give  Fanny  this  amount,"  she 
added,  putting  down  on  the  table  four  five-franc  pieces,  '*  and 
you  will  inform  her  that  I  dispense  with  her  service  henceforth." 

Marie  took  the  money,  curtsied,  and  feeling,  as  she  after- 
wards said,  that  it  was  all  done  for,  she  thought  she  might  as 
well  have  her  revenge.  Politely,  therefore,  but  with  a  sting- 
ing politeness,  she  said : 

"  I  am  sorry  it  inconvenienced  Madame  to  let  me  have 
that  money  ;  if  Fanny  and  I  had  known  it,  we  would  willingly 
have  given  Madame  more  time." 

"  8how  the  woman  out,"  loftily  said  Madame  des  Granges. 

"Ah!  she  will  not  call  me  a  good  woman  now,"  thought 
Marie,  exulting  in  her  success.  And  being  one  of  those  happy 
persons  with  whom  the  gratification  of  temper  is  paramount, 
Marie  left  the  house  neither  disheartened  nor  disconcerted  by 
the  remembrance  that  through  her  kind  exertions  Fanny  had 
lost  a  customei". 

"  Nothing  like  sticking  up  for  one's  own,  child,"  soliloquized 
Marie,  addressing  an  imaginary  Fanny  as  she  went  home. 
"  Let  yourself  be  trod  on,  and  you  will  be  trod  on ;  stick  up  for 
your  rights,  and  you  will  be  respected." 

In  this  triumphant  and  congratulatory  frame  of  mind 
Marie  went  home. 


132  SEVEN   YEAES. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


Madame  la  Roche  was  talking  with  Monsieur  Noiret, 
Fanny  was  preparing  tl:e  sober  supper,  of  wliich  the  family 
partook  every  evening  ;  and  Charles,  tired  with  play,  was  sleep- 
ing in  Charlotte's  arms,  when  Marie  made  her  appearance. 
With  that  want  of  all  ceremony  which  had  ever  characterized 
her,  Marie,  spite  the  presence  of  Monsieur  Noiret,  at  once  in- 
formed every  one  present  of  what  had  occurred  ;  but  she  did  so 
in  her  own  fashion. 

"  There,  child,"  said  she,  throwing  down  the  money  on  the 
table,  "  there  is  your  money.  My  opinion  is,  that  without  me 
you  might  have  done  long  enough  without  it." 

The  plate  Fanny  held  nearly  dropped  from  her  hand. 

"  You  have  been  to  Madame  des  Granges  ?  "  she  said,  look- 
ing frightened. 

'' Yes,  child ;  and  trouble  enough  I  had  in  getting  these 
few  silver  pieces  from  her.  I  would  be  ashamed  to  be  a  lady 
and  not  be  able  to  pay  for  the  work  I  got  done." 

"  T  hope  there  is  no  mischief  done,"  uneasily  said  Fanny. 

"  Mischief,  my  dear  !  "  put  in  Charlotte,  "  I  can  tell  you 
what  mischief  there  is, — you  had  better  never  go  near  Madame 
des  Grau2;es  again." 

"  That  is  not  it,  surely  !  "  said  Fanny,  giving  Marie  an  un- 
easy look. 

Marie  put  a  brave  face  on  the  matter. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  stoutly  replied  Marie  ;  "  you  would  not 
go  to  a  woman  that  does  not  want  to  pay  you,  would  you  ?  No. 
Besides,  even  if  you  did,  my  dear,  it  would  be  of  no  use, 
Madame  des  Granges  is  deep :  seeing  me  determined,  she 
thought  it  best  to  draw  in  her  horns,  and  she  accordingly  mut- 
tered something  about  having  no  more  work  for  you,  with 
which  we  parted  " 

Fanny  forgot  the  presence  of  Monsieur  Noiret :  she  only 
felt  the  calamity.  She  sank  down  on  a  chair,  and  clasped  her 
hands,  exclaiming  : 

"  God  forgive  you,  and  help  us,  Marie.  She  was  my  last 
customer." 

"  Some  people  mar  where  they  meddle,"  begun  Charlotte. 

Madame  la  lloche  extended  her  pale  thin  hand. 

"  Hush,"  she  said  gently,  but  in  a  voice  of  command,  and 
with  the  self-possession  which  good  breeding  imparts,  she  rc- 
eumed  her  conversation  with  Monsieur  Noiret,  who  had  looked 


SEVEN    YEARS.  133 

cn  keenly  though  silently,  whilst  Fanny  returned  to  her  prepa 
rations,  and   Marie  and    Charlotte  were  sulkily  silent.     Mon- 
sieur Noirct  soon  rose,  and  looking  hard  at  Fanny,  he   said 
quietly  : 

"  I  am  sorry  for  what  has  occurred.  I  am  acquainted  with 
few  ladies,  and  I  cannot  give  another  customer  instead  of  the 
lost  one  ;  but  Fanny  knows  there  is  an  easy  remedy  for  all  this 
uneasiness." 

The  lips  of  Fanny  opened  to  give  Monsieur  Noiret  his  an- 
swer once  for  all,  but  she  met  the  startled  look  of  Madame  la 
Boche,  and  checking  herself,  she  merely  bent  her  head  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  I  know  it." 

"  oh  !  you  will  think  it  over,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret  in  his 
cheerful  voice ;  "  that  is  all  I  wish  for,  my  dear, — all  I  wish 
for.  Good  evening,  ladies,  good  evening."  And  with  a  grace- 
ful wave  of  his  hand  he  left  them. 

The  supper  was  silent.  Fanny  was  pale  as  death  :  Madame 
la  Roche,  guessing  what  passed  in  the  young  girl's  mind,  looked 
at  her  pitifully;  Charlotte  and  Marie  seemed  agreed  on  a  silent 
truce.  Periiaps  they,  too,  were  meditating  on  Monsieur  Noi- 
ret's  last  words,  on  Fanny's  looks,  and  speculating  on  the  prob- 
able issue  of  both. 

We  have  said  that  Fanny  slept  in  a  sort  of  closet,  which 
was  barely  large  enough  to  hold  her  bed.  She  always  was  the 
last  up,  and  on  this  evening  she  stayed  later  up  than  usual. 
At  length,  however,  she  lay  down,  and  prepared  for  a  sleep- 
less night. 

She  had  not  been  long  in  iDed,  when,  wrapped  in  a  shawl 
and  holding  a  candle,  Madame  la  Roche  appeared  by  her  bed- 
side. Fanny  sat  up  startled,  and  was  going  to  ask  what  ailed 
her,  or  what  had  hajDpened,  when  the  lady  signed  her  to  be  si- 
lent and  lie  down. 

"  My  dear,"  she  softly  said,  bending  over  her,  "  do  not  fret, 
do  not  trouble  ;  do  not  think  of  what  Monsieur  Noiret  said,  aud 
do  not  mind  either  Charlotte  or  Marie,  if  they  urge  you. 
They  mean  well,  but  they  think  all  the  happiness  of  life  is  in 
money  :  they  know  nothing  about  it,  and  do  not  mind  them. 
All  will  be  well  yet:  I  have  a  plan  I  will  talk  of  with  you  to- 
morrow, aud  now  good  night,  and  sleep."  She  kissed  her,  and 
withdrew  softly,  without  having  allowed  the  young  girl  to  ut- 
ter a  word. 

Fanny  wondered  at  first  what  Madame  la  Roche's  projects 
could  be,  then  soothed,  spite  of  herself,  by  a  vague  hope,  she 
sighed  with  relief,  and  closing  her  eyes  soon  slept  soundly. 


134  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

At  breakfast  the  next  morning  Madame  la  Roche  unfolded 
her  plans  ;  smiling,  with  a  content  to  which  her  mild  but  sad 
face  had  long  been  a  stranger,  she  said  cheerfully  : 

"  I  wonder  I  never  thought  of  it  before ;  but  I  have  often 
heard  that  good  ideas  are  slow  to  come.      It  is   singular,  I  do 
not  see  why  it  should  be  so.     Well,  this  is  what  I  have  thought 
of,"  she   added,  displaying  a  little   painted  fan  on  the  table. 
*'  You  know  how  much  my  fan  has  been  admired.     The  people 
of  the  shop  who  mounted  it  declared  it  was  a  beautiful  work  of 
art,  and  that  they  would  willingly  give  twenty  francs  for  one 
like  it.     Now  you  know,  Fanny,  my  dear,  that  I  painted  it  in 
three  mornings.      Twenty  francs  in  three  mornings  !  why,  tbat 
makes  forty  francs  a  week,  and  one  hundred  and  sixty  francs 
a  month  !     Besides  that,  Fanny  can  learn,  and  paint  fans  too, 
in  a  very  short  time.     JSfow,  my  dear   child,  do  not  look  so 
startled.     It  is  not  difficult.     This  is  how  it  is  done.     I  have 
a  set  of  pieces  of  card-board,  you  know,  with  the  flowers,  birds 
and  butterflies  all  perforated.     Where  I  fiud  a  vacant  place  I 
put   a  colour,  then   I  finish  ofi",  and  I  have  produced  a  rose,  a 
pink,  or  a  bird,  as  the  case  may  be.     A  circle  does  for  the  rose, 
a  triangle  for  the  pink,  an  oval  for  the  bird.     I  add  the  head 
and  tail  afterwards;   the  head   at  one   end  and  the   tail  at  the 
other,  of  course.     Our  master  at  school  used  to  call  this  geo- 
metrical drawing,  and  really  the  effect  is  very  pretty  ;   then  the 
grouping  is  all  my  own,  to  be  sure.  "  And  with  innocent  vanity 
Madame  la  Roche  opened  the  fan,  which,  thanks  to  its  bright 
colours,  plenty  of  gilding,  and  the  grouping,  really  looked  very 
pretty. 

"  If  I  had  all  the  fans  I  have  painted  and  given  away," 
sighed  Madame  la  Roche,  "  I  should  have  quite  a  fortune  by 
this.  Well,  well,  I  gave  them  freely,  and  it  is  wrong  to  grudge 
a  gift." 

Marie  and  Charlotte  had  too  long  looked  on  their  mistress 
as  on  a  superior  fairy,  gitted  with  every  accomplishment,  to 
doubt  the  beauty  of  the  tans  and  consequently  their  success. 
Fanny  was  not  quite  so  confident  or  so  sanguine ;  but  she  too, 
from  her  childhood  upwards,  had  learned  to  respect  the  artistic 
talents  of  her  protectress,  and  though  she  timidly  objected  that 
perhaps  so  many  fans  as  Madame  la  Roche  could  paint  might 
not  be  saleable,  the  fans  themselves  found  in  her  a  ready  and 
devout  believer.  Madame  la  Roche  felt  no  sort  of  doubt  on 
the  subject.  Inexperience  of  life  and  its  trials  supplied  in  her 
the  hopefulness  of  youth,  and  produced  results  apparently 
similar.     Confident  of  success,  she  talked  and  laughed  with 


SEVEN   YEARS.  135 

unusual  liveliness,  and  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  over,  she  went 
out  with  the  fan  in  her  pocket,  and  Charles  by  the  hand. 

"  It  is  a  fine  thing  Madame  has  thought  of,"  observed 
Marie,  as  she  was  making  the  beds  :  "  it  will  be  the  making  of 
Monsieur  Charles,  pretty  dear." 

"  I  did  not  think  Madame  was  going  to  paint  fans  in  her 
old  age,  nor  that  the  child  of  my  dear  foster-daughter  was  to 
rely  on  fans  for  a  fortune,"  replied  Charlotte. 

"  It  is  well  people  have  not  the  evil  eye,  as  well  as  an  evil 
tongue,"  angrily  exclaimed  Marie,  throwing  a  counterpane  on 
the  bed  with  a  revengeful  air,  "  else  Heaven  have  mercy  on 
us.     We  should  be  in  a  pretty  state." 

"  The  belief  in  the  evil  eye  is  an  ancient  superstition," 
placidly  answered  Charlotte.  "  I  have  heard  of  remote  prov- 
inces and  of  aged  people  who  still  cherish  it." 

This  was  one  of  the  speeches  that  usually  exasperated 
Marie,  and  which  by  urging  her  to  make  some  bitter  and  vehe- 
ment reply,  invariably  led  to  a  dire  quarrel. 

And  a  severe  encounter  no  doubt  took  place,  but  Fanny 
heard  no  more,  for  she  went  out  on  a  domestic  errand,  and 
remained  some  time  away.  When  she  came  back  Madame  la 
Roche  had  returned,  and  was  sitting  in  her  arm-chair  by  the  fire- 
side. A  look  at  her  face  told  Fanny  what  the  fate  of  Madame  la 
Roche's  errand  had  been.  Pale  and  sad  she  sat,  her  hands 
folded  on  her  knees,  her  look  listlessly  fastened  on  the  child 
playing  on  the  rug  as  gaily  as  if  his  future  were  couleur  de 
rose.  Marie  and  Charlotte  sat  a  little  apart,  one  sewing,  the 
other  doing  nothing,  and  both  gloomy. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  speaking  with 
an  eff"ort,  "  I  have  received  another  strange  proof  of  the  insin- 
cerity of  the  world.  When  I  was  a  rich  lady,  and  got  fans 
mounted,  I  painted  beautifully;  now  that  I  am  a  poor  woman 
and  want  to  earn  my  bread,  my  painting  is  all  trash.  Yes, 
my  dear,  that  same  fan  which  they  praised  so  much  formerly 
is  trash  now." 

"  Dear  Madame,  do  not  mind  them,"  said  Fanny,  much 
moved. 

"  My  dear  child,  I  should  not  care  if  it  were  not  that  we 
are  as  we  are,  so  miserably  poor." 

She  sighed,  and  closing  her  eyes  sank  back  in  her  chair 
with  an  air  of  weariness. 

"  Some  one  else  may  like  the  fans,"  timidly  suggested  Fanny. 

But  if  inexperience  sometimes  gives  the  sanguine  hopes  of 

you^h  to  age,  it  never  bestows  the  wonderful  elasticity  of  that 


130  SEVEN    YEARS. 

happy  time  of  life  to  declining  years.  Madame  la  Roelie's 
dreams  had  been  rudely  dispelled ;  tbcy  could  not  know  a 
second  birth. 

"  No,  child,"  she  said,  sighing,  "  I  perceive  I  have  been  de- 
ceived.    It  does  not  matter  much,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned 
I  thought  my  fan  pretty  and  valuable,  and  it  is  worthless ;  no 
it   does   not   matter   about  my  little  amour-propre;    but  why 
cheat  myself  willingly  ?     I  will  not :  indeed,  I  could  not." 

"  Bonne  mamau,"  said  Charles,  "  you  promised  me  a  gun, 
where  is  it  ?  " 

Madame  la  Roche  took  up  the  child  on  her  knees,  and 
kissed  him  silently. 

"  Child,"  she  said,  "  I  was  glad  when  you  were  born,  and 
when  your  poor  mother  died  it  seemed  a  comfort  to  have  you 
left  :  but  now  I  think  that  if  you  were  in  your  little  grave  I 
should  not  fret  or  cry  much.  I  should  think,  God  has  taken 
him  away  to  spare  him  a  v.'orld  of  trouble  and  care." 

The  round  face  of  Charles  lengthened,  and  his  bright  eyes 
grew  fixed  as  he  heard  this.  Charlotte  threw  her  handkerchief 
on  her  face  and  sobbed  from  behind  it,  and  Marie,  looking  at 
Fanny,  said  moodily: 

"  Well,  Fanny,  if  I  had  in  my  power  what  you  have  in 
yours,  matters  should  not  be  as  they  are." 

Before  Fanny  could  reply,  Madame  la  Roche  looked  up 
and  said  gravely,  "  I  beg,  Marie,  and  once  for  all,  that  Fanny 
may  never  be  urged  on  that  subject  again." 

"  Ay,"  thought  Faun}',  pressing  her  hand  to  her  aching 
forehead,  "  it  all  lies  with  me  !  I  can  make  them  happy  with 
a  word,  and  it  seems  so  easy." 

But  uo  more  was  said  on  the  subject.  Madame  la  Roche 
tried  to  rally,  and  succeeded  indifferently;  Charles  resumed 
his  gambols;  Marie  and  Charlotte  picked  up  a  quarrel  about 
nothing,  and  Fanny  was  left  to  her  own  thoughts.  The  day 
seemed  dull  and  heavy  ;  evening  brought  Monsieur  Noii'et  with 
his  brisk  cheerfulness  ;  if  he  noticed  the  gloom  cast  on  the  little 
family  he  took  care  to  seem  unconscious  of  it,  and  was  as  po- 
lite and  gallant  as  if  addressing  a  circle  of  smiling  faces. 
Similar  to  this  were  the  next  day  and  the  next  evening.  On 
the  third  morning  Fanny  rose  pale  as  death. 

"  Something  ails  her,"  said  Marie  to  Charlotte. 

"  She  looks  like  Monica  on  the  day  she  went  to  America," 
sententiously  replied  Charlotte.  "  Now,  Monica,  I  said,  mind 
what  you  are  about.  It  is  all  very  well  to  go  to  America,  but 
to  come  back  is  another  thing." 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  137 

"  What  has  America  to  do  with  Fanny's  white  face  ?  "  iior 
patiently  asked  Marie.     "  She  is  not  a  map,  is  she  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  think  she  is,"  replied  Cliarlotte,  coolly.  "  I 
like  the  girl  too  much  to  find  any  likeness." 

"  A  saint  could  not  stand  that,"  wrathfully  began  Marie. 

"  Peace,  peace,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  appearing ;  "  I 
will  have  quietness ;  Fanny,  my  dear,  what  ails  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Madame,"  replied  Fanny,  with  a  cold  abstracted 
manner. 

"  Are  you  going  out  ?  "  asked  Madame  la  Roche,  seeing  that 
she  put  on  her  shawl. 

Fanny  said  she  was. 

"  And  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  want  air,"  eA-asively  said  Fanny.  Madame  la  Roche 
gave  her  a  compassionate  look,  and  went  back  to  her  room, 
Marie  and  Charlotte  exchanged  furtive  glances,  but  did  not 
utter  a  word  till  the  door  had  closed  on  Fanny. 

"  She  has  made  up  her  mind,  then,"  said  Marie,  whom  a 
natural  infirmity  rarely  allowed  to  keep  her  rnind  to  herself; 
"  she  is  as  white  as  paper." 

"  Paper  is  not  always  white,"  replied  Charlotte;  "there 
is  brown  paper  and  blue  paper." 

"  I  never  heard  anything  like  it,"  exclaimed  Marie,  exas- 
perated ;  "  I  tell  you  what,  Charlotte,  the  same  house  can- 
not hold  us  long.      It  cannot." 

"  It  need  not,"  placidly  said  Charlotte  ;  "  when  Fanny  is 
Madame  Noiret,  I  shall  of  course  go  and  live  with  my  god- 
daughter. Summer  is  coming  on,  and  I  shall  enjoy  country 
air." 

To  this  taunt,  for  a  taunt  it  was,  Marie  having  often  de- 
clared that  she  would  live  with  Fanny  in  the  event  of  her 
marriage,  the  owner  of  the  Norman  cap  now  only  replied  with 
an  attempt  to  whistle,  and  an  emphatic  bah  ! 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

At  twelve  Charlotte  discovered  that  she  wanted  to  go 
out;  and  at  once  Marie  made  a  similar  discovery.  Madame 
la  Roche  saw  them  depart  with  apathetic  listlessness,  and  only 
asked  if  they  would  not  take  out  Charles. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,"  said  Charlotte, 
*it  is  too  far." 

Marie  was  going  to  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  and   though  that 


188  SEVEN    TEARS. 

happened  to  be  the  opposite  direction,  it  was  also    too  far  for 
the  child  to  accompany  her. 

"  Oh  !  very  well,"  listlessly  said  Madame  la  Roche,  and 
she  resumed  her  sad  contemplation  of  the  decaying  embers 
on  the  hearth,  for  spring  time  though  it  was,  the  morning  was 
chill. 

Marie  was  going  to  the  Rue  St.  Hon  ore,  but  unaccount- 
ably her  steps  took  another  direction,  and  before  half  an  hour 
was  over  she  crossed  the  threshold  of  Monsieur  Noiret's  house, 
and  was  admitted  by  Monsieur  Noiret's  servant  into  that  gen- 
tleman's sitting-room. 

"  Eh  !  my  old  friend  Marie,"  he  said  jocularly  ;  well,  what 
news,  Marie  ?  " 

"  Good  news,  sir,"  knowingly  said  Marie.     "  Good  news." 

Monsieur  Noiret  had  passed  the  age  when  the  heart  beats 
and  the  cheek  flushes ;  but  a  sparkle  of  triumph,  nevertheless, 
lit  his  brown  eye  ;  and  a  slow  smile,  a  genuine  smile,  display- 
ed his  shining  teeth. 

"  Good  news  !  "  he  repeated ;  "  sit  down,  Marie,  and  tell 
me  those  good  news." 

"  Fanny  has  made  up  her  mind." 

"  About  what  ?  "  placidly  asked  Monsieur  Noiret. 

"  Monsieur  knows." 

"  I  shall  know  when  you  tell  me,  IMarie." 

"  Monsieur  knows,"  repeated  Marie,  who  was  of  a  stvibbom 
turn.  "  I  came  to  tell  Monsieur,  and  also  to  warn  Monsieur 
about  Charlotte.  It  dues  not  become  me  to  speak  ill  of  an 
old  fellow-servant  to  whom  I  am  attached,  and  for  whom  I 
would  work  my  poor  bo  les  bare ;  but  all  1  say  is  this,  if 
Monsieur  Noiret  takes  Charlotte  in  his  house  he  will  repent  it 
as  long  as  he  lives." 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  smiling,  "  not  ex- 
actly. I  never  repent  anything  more  than  a  day  ;  for  when 
what  I  have  done  docs  not  suit  me,"  continued  Monsieur 
Noiret,  "  I  undo  it." 

Marie  was  rather  disconcerted,  and  coughed  from  behind 
her  hand  ;  but  she  soon  rallied  and  observed  : 

"  I  can  assure  Monsieur  that  Charlotte  does  not  think  of 
that,  and  that  she  contemplates  spending  her  life  with  Mon- 
sieur." 

"  Very  curious,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  smiling ;  "  Char- 
lotte has  not  been  gone  five  minutes,  and  she  averred  the  same 
thing  of  you." 

The  eyes  of  Marie  shot  fire. 


SEVEN   YEARS.  139 

"  Oil !  if  Charlotte  has  been  here,"  she  said,  "  I  can  im- 
agine what  she  has  been  saying  of  me." 

"  Very  kind  things,"  replied  Monsieur  Noiret ;  "  in  short, 
much  about  what  you  have  been  saying  of  her." 

This  did  not  seem  to  soothe  Marie  much;  for  she  observ- 
ed, with  considerable  asperity : 

"  Then  I  suppose  it  is  all  settled,  and  that  she  is  to  come 
here.      All  I  can  say  is.  Monsieur  will  repent  it," 

"  Dear  me,  this  is  very  singular,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret ; 
"  something  has  happened  that  requires  me  to  be  favored  with 
your  presence,  or  with  that  of  Charlotte,  but  I  cannot  possibly 
learn  what  it  is  from  either  one  or  the  other." 

"  Did  not  Charlotte  tell  Monsieur  ?  "  asked  Marie,  bright- 
ening. 

"  Not  more  than  you  have  done,"  replied  Monsieur  Noiret; 
"  I  am  supposed  to  be  a  sphinx,  and  to  guess  riddles." 

"  Dear  me,  to  think  of  it.  Well,  then,  since  Monsieur 
wishes  to  know  the  truth,  I  must  tell  it  in  plain  words.  Fanny 
jas  made  up  her  mind." 

"  To  what  ?  '■'  said  Monsieur  Noiret. 

"  To  become  Monsieur's  wife,  I  suppose,"  said  Marie, 
curtseying. 

"  Hem  !  "  said  Monsieur  Noiret,  giving  her  a  keen  look, 
"  did  Fanny  say  so  V 

"  Young  girls  never  say  so,"  sharply  replied  Marie. 

"  Oh,  yes  they  do — sometimes,"  replied  Monsieur  Noiret, 
*'  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  if  Fanny  has  made  up  her  mind 
she  will  say  so.  In  the  mean  while,  my  dear  creature,  and 
until  the  little  thing  has  fairly  spoken,  we  will  consider  that 
nothing,  actually  nothing,  has  happened." 

"  But  Fanny  has  made  up  her  mind,"  obstinately  said 
Marie. 

"  Very  well,"  placidly  replied  Monsieur  Noiret.  "  I  shall 
say  a  few  words  to  her  to-night ;  and  to-morrow  or  after  to- 
morrow," he  graciously  added,  "  we  can  discuss  those  other 
matters  that  brought  you  and  Charlotte  here  to-day." 

This  was  a  polite  dismissal :  Marie  curtsied  again,  and  left 
in  a  suspicious  mood,  convinced  that  Charlotte  had  forestalled 
her,  and  anything  but  pleased  with  the  success  of  her  errand. 

And  yet  in  one  respect  Marie  was  right  enough.  Fanny's 
mind  was  made  up,  and  when  she  left  the  house  that  morning 
she  seemed  to  be  treading  upon  air.  Light  and  swift  as  a 
vision  she  passed  through  streets,  and  went  up  and  down  lanes 
and  alleys,  seeing  nothing,  feeling  nothing, — absorbed  in  one 


140  SEVEN   TEARS. 

thought  that  eifaced  every  other.     At  length  she  stopped  before 
the  shop  of  Baptiyte,  and  pushing  open  the  door  she  entered. 

Baptiste  was  alone,  making  up  an  account.  He  looked  up 
with  the  slowness  habitual  to  him,  and  saw  Fanny  standing 
before  him  looking  at  him  with  sad  eyes,  and  pale  as  death. 

Strong  man  as  he  was,  Baptiste  shook  and  grew  white. 
For  a  while  he  could  not  move^  but  sat  and  looked  amazed  at 
this  pale  vision.  It  may  be  that  Fanny  misunderstood  his 
silence,  for,  raising  her  hand  with  a  deprecating  gesture,  she 
said  meekly  : 

"  Baptiste,  am  I  welcome?  " 

"  You  ask  it !  "  broke  from  Baptiste's  full  heart,  "you  ask 
if  you  are  welcome,  Fanny  !  "  and  rising  he  went  towards  her. 

Fanny  sat  down  on  a  chair,  and  hid  her  burning  face  in 
her  hands.  Baptiste  thought  she  was  crying,  and  that  some- 
thing dreadful  hrid  happened. 

"What  is  it  ?  "  he  cried:  "nothing  to  you,  surely,"  he 
added,  eyeing  her  uneasily,  as  if,  even  though  he  saw  her  be- 
fore him,  he  scarcely  thought  her  safe  ;  "  what  is  it,  Fanny  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  she  answered,  looking  up,  and  uncovering  her 
red  face,  "  nothing,  only  what  do  you  think  of  my  coming  to 
you,  Bapti.^te  ?  "  " 

"  That  you  are  in  trouble,"  he  simply  replied,  "  and  that 
you  want  me." 

"  Yes,  that  is  it,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  touch  of  bitterness; 
"  if  I  did  not  want  you  I  should  not  be  here,  and  you  know  it. 
Well,  Baptiste,  I  do  not  care  what  you  think  ;  you  are  the 
only  friend  I  have  left,  and  I  come  to  you.  Help  me  to  bear 
up,  or  I  shall  sink.  Tell  me  you  are  fond  of  me,  spite  of  all 
tliat  has  passed,  or  I  shall  get  reckless  and  do  something  des- 
perate that  shall  end  it  all." 

Baptiste  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  clasped  them  with 
tender  tirmness. 

"  Fanny,  my  little  Fanny,"  he  said,  "  what  is  it  ?  Tell 
me  all,  tell  me  everything." 

"  They  want  me  to  mai-ry  old  Monsieur  Noiret,"  said 
Fanny,  hanging  down  her  head,  "  and  I  will  not — I  cannot." 

Baptiste  set  his  teeth. 

"  Marry  that  old  man  !  "  he  said,  "  marry  any  man — not 
whilst  I  am  alive,  Fanny.  You  are  my  wife,  or  as  good  as  my 
wife,  and  all  the  mischief  is  that  you  will  not  be  my  wife  out- 
right." 

"  I  cannot — I  cannot,"  cried  Fanny,  desperately.  "  Oh  ! 
if  I  but  could,  Baptiste,  what  a  world  of  care  it  would   spare 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  141 

me.  But  T  cannot.  They  want  me  too  nmcli,  and  I  like  you 
too  well  to  cast  that  burden  on  you.  But  I  wish  that  old  man 
would  not  come,  and  I  wish  they  would  not  sigh  and  look  as 
they  do.  I  know  the  poverty  and  want  of  our  wretched  home, 
and  my  heart  feels  ready  to  break.  This  is  why  I  came  to 
you.  I  have  no  one  else  to  fly  to  for  strength  and  succour, 
and  if  I  stay  alone  I  am  undone — I  am  undone." 

"  I  am  a  wretch  to  have  forsaken  you,  my  poor  little  dar- 
ling,'' said  Baptiste,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  "  but  do  not  fret, 
my  heart,  my  treasure  ;  say  nothing  when  you  go  home.  Let 
them  sigh,  let  them  look  as  long  as  they  like.  I  shall  drop  in 
this  evening  as  if  nothing  had  happened  ;  and  when  that  old 
gentleman  sees  me,"  added  Baptiste,  grimly,  "  I  am  very  much 
mistaken  if  he  does  not  drop  oft",  eh  ?  " 

Fanny  lauohed  through  her  tears  :  trust  and  comfort  came 
to  her  with  Baptiste's  honest  voice  and  look. 

"  With  that  good  friend,"  she  thought,  "  surely  all  will  be 
well  yet." 

And  full  of  faith  and  hope  she  gave  Baptiste  her  hand,  and 
smiled  brightly  as  she  said  : 

"  What  possessed  me,  Baptiste,  ever  to  let  you  leave  me  ? 
I  ought  to  have  known  that  I  could  not  do  without  you. 
Ought  I  not?" 

Baptiste's  eyes  sparkled. 

"  I  do  think  you  are  fond  of  me,"  he  said.  "  I  have  often 
thought  you  were  not ;  but  since  we  parted  I  thought  over 
many  things,  and  I  felt  it  in  my  heart :   Fanny  likes  me." 

"  Couceit,  mere  conceit,"  said  Fanny.  "I  want  you  just 
now  to  send  oft'  Monsieur  Noiret,  that  is  all  And  so  good 
bye." 

iShe  nodded,  and  was  gone. 

"  She  may  say  what  she  likes,"  thought  Baptiste,  "  that 
girl  is  fond  of  me." 

Fanny  let  him  rejoice  in  tlie  triumphant  conviction,  and 
went  home.  Of  what  had  happened  she  said  nothing :  she 
had  always  been  able  to  keep  her  own  counsel,  and  she  thought 
it  would  be  time  enough  to  speak  when  Baptiste  showed  him- 
self. Fanny,  indeed,  might  have  been  more  open  had  she  sus- 
pected the  mistake  under'whicli  her  friends  laboured,  but  she 
did  not,  and  she  helped  to  deceive  them  in  perfect  good  faith. 

'•  My  dear,  you  look  feverish,"  said  Madame  la  Koclie 
anxiously.  "  I  do  not  know  Avhen  I  have  seen  you  with  such 
a  colour." 


142  SEVEN    YEARS. 

Fauny  blushed,  and  said  something  about  a  headache, 
which  was  not,  we  fear,  quite  correct. 

Marie  spoke  next. 

"  Girls  are  so,"  she  said,  "  they  cannot  be  like  other  peo- 
ple ;  they  must  colour  and  look  foolish,  one  never  knows  why. 
What  is  there  in  marriage  that  upset  them  so  ?  They  are  all 
mad  to  be  married,  and  yet  when  it  comes  to  the  point,  they 
are  as  fantastical  as  princesses." 

Fanny  looked  and  felt  puzzled ;  there  seemed  something  in 
this  speech  that  applied  to  her,  but  more  that  did  not.  She 
thought  it  most  prudent  not  to  reply. 

"  Girls  are  not  always  so  anxious  to  get  married,"  said 
Charlotte,  who  could  not  lose  the  opportunity  of  contradic- 
tion ;  "  it  depends  on  the  advice  they  get,  and  if  Monica  had 
not  been  ill  advised  I  will  not  believe  that  she  would  even 
have  gone  off  to  America." 

"  Fanny,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  wishing  to  know  more, 
and  to  put  an  end  to  the  contest,  "  you  were  a  long  time  out; 
where  have  you  been  ?  "  Fauny  reddened  more  than  ever, 
and  remained  mute. 

"  Never  mind,  dear,  never  mind,"  quickly  said  Madame  la 
Roche,  unwilling  to  distress  her,  "  all  in  good  time,  I  have  no 
doubt." 

Fanny  thought  so  too,  and  did  not  speak.  Charlotte  and 
Marie  exchanged  significant  looks ;  evidently  Fanny  had  had 
a  private  conversation  with  Monsieur  Noiret.  It  was  strange 
tliat  she  had  not  seen  him  at  home  in  their  presence,  but 
Fanny  was  a  fanciful  girl,  and  liked  to  do  things  her  own 
way. 

Madame  la  Roche  came  to  the  same  conclusion ;  with 
mingled  surprise  and  relief  she  saw  that  Fanny  seemed  very 
happy;  there  was  a  ready  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  light  in  her 
eyes  to  which  both  had  long  been  a  stranger :  "I  suppose  it  is 
having  made  her  mind  up,"  thought  Madame  la  Roche  :  "  I 
always  feel  much  lighter  when  I  have  made  my  mind  up 
Poor  Baptiste  !  I  wonder  how  he  will  bear  it." 

In  this  discreet  silence  on  both  sides  the  day  passed: 
Fanny  thinking  herself  suspected,  Madame  la  Roche,  Char- 
lotte, and  Marie  concluding  all  was  right :  none  on  either 
Bide  holding  it  necessary  to  speak.  Unsuspicious  of  the  ap- 
proaching storm,  Madame  la  Roche  dropped  asleep  after 
dinner. 

It  was  early  yet,  when  a  ring  was  heard  at  the  door. 
Fanny  started  up,  joyous  but  a  little  flurried.     She  knew  Bap- 


SEVEN    YEARS.  143 

tiste's  ring,  and  opened  with  a  trembling  hand,  yet  with  a 
happy  smile,  that  faded  away  on  beholding  Monsieur  Noiret. 

He  did  not  appear  to  lieed  or  see  her  blank  looks.  He 
entered  gay,  smiling,  cheerful ;  he  directed  his  most  amiable 
bow  and  greeting  to  Madame  la  Roche,  and  as  he  sat  down  by 
her  side,  he  nodded  to  Charlotte  and  Marie,  and  looked  hard 
at  Fannv.  Her  countenance  revealed  none  of  the  sio-ns  Mon- 
sieur  Noiret  had  been  led  to  expect.  Uneasy  and  disturbed 
at  his  visit,  she  sheltered  her  face  behind  Charles's  curly  head, 
and  looked  with  the  child  at  a  book  on  her  lap. 

"  Charles  is  learning  how  to  read,"  said  Monsieur  Noiret. 

"I  know  all  my  letters  !  "  cried  Charles,  proudly. 

"  No  wonder,  with  such  a  teacher  !  "  resumed  Monsieur 
Noiret,  still  looking  hard  at  Fanny.  She  felt  the  child  was 
but  a  means  of  drawing  attention  to  her,  so  she  c|uietly  put 
him  away,  and  rose  apparently  to  take  some  work  in  hand. 

Marie,  who  was  burning  to  briug  matters  to  a  crisis, 
hastened  to  observe  in  an  under  voice  : 

"  The  most  industrious  girl." 

"  A  treasure  to  a  husband  I  "  put  in  Charlotte. 

Monsieur  Noiret  smiled,  and  Fanny,  red  as  tire,  dropped 
the  linen  she  was  going  to  darn,  and  turuiug  towards  Monsieur 
Noiret  her  flushed  and  angry  face,  she  said  to  Marie  : 

"  You  know  I  detect  sewing." 

Monsieur  Noiret  laughed,  and  looked  more  pleased  than 
shocked  at  this  little  burst  of  temper.  Fann3',  who  felt  greatly 
annoyed,  glanced  at  him  with  as  nmch  haughtiness  as  she  could 
venture  to  put  in  her  look,  but  even  as  she  gaz^d  she  became 
conscious  of  a  singular  change  in  Monsieur  Noiret's  face;  it 
darkened  visibly  ;  his  brows  knit  slightly,  and  his  dark  eyes 
shone  from  beneath  them  with  something  like  fierceness. 

Fanny  turned  round  startled,  yet  not  quite  unconscious  of 
the  cause  of  so  strange  a  change.  The  door  which  she  had 
neglected  to  close  on  Monsieur  Noiret  had  opened  again,  and 
Baptiste  was  standing  on  the  threshold. 

Fanny  cast  a  troubled  and  anxious  look  around  her. 
Charlotte  and  Marie  looked  confounded  ;  Madame  la  Eoche 
utterly  amazed  ;  and  Monsieur  Noiret  black  and  defiant.  At 
once  he  guessed  the  truth,  or  rather  he  went  beyond  it. 
Madame  la  Roche,  her  two  servants,  and  Fanny,  he  comprised 
in  one  mean  ph)t  to  entrap  and  cheat  him,  and  though  he  was 
too  gentleman-like  to  show  any  temper,  there  was  scarcely  any 
mistaking  the  smile  with  which  he  rose  and  bade  Madame  la 
Roche  good  evening. 


144  SEVEN   YEARS. 

"  Good  evening,  my  dear  Madame,"  he  said,  with  his  most 
urbane  smile,  "no  apologies,  I  beg;  I  hold  myself  fortunate 
in  having  seen  you  this  evening.  I  may  not  have  like  pleasure 
in  haste.  I  perceive  I  was  not  expected  so  very  early ;  I 
think  I  did  come  rather  too  early ;  but  friendship  discards  all 
ceremony.     Good  evening  ;   I  entreat  you  not  to  stir." 

With  a  courtly  bow  all  round,  Monsieur  Noiret  stepped 
out.  pinching  Fanny's  cheek  as  be  passed  by  her. 

"  You  are  very  young,  my  dear,  to  act  a  double  part,"  he 
said  blandly,  "  you  are  very  young.     Good  night." 

He  waved  his  hand  to  her,  and  walked  out  past  Baptiste, 
who  mechanically  stepped  aside  to  make  way  for  his  rival,  and 
who,  fortunately  for  that  gentleman,  had  not  heard  the  parting 
speech  Fanny  had  received  from  him.  As  for  Fanny,  she  was 
too  much  taken  by  surprise  to  resent  on  the  moment  the  impu- 
tation it  conveyed. 

When  the  door  had  closed  on  Monsieur  Noiret,  Baptiste 
looked  around  him.  Not  one  face,  not  even  Fanny's  bade  him 
welcome.  The  young  girl  was  shocked  and  frightened  at 
Monsieur  Noiret's  words.  Madame  la  Roche  looked  as  if  she 
had  gazed  on  Medusa's  face  ;  and  Charlotte  and  Marie  were 
fairly  boiling  over  with  wrath  at  an  intrusion  which,  in  their 
opinion,  ruined  everything. 

It  was  lucky  for  Baptiste  that  he  was  of  a  phlegmatic 
temper,  else  he  might  have  been  disconcerted  at  so  strange  a 
reception  ;  as  it  was,  he  looked  calmly  around  him,  and  seeing 
that  Fanny  was  only  startled,  he  troubled  himself  but  little 
with  the  rest. 

Madame  la  Roche  was  the  first  to  speak.  She  clasj)ed  her 
hands  and  wrung  them, 

"  I  owe  Monsieur  Noiret  a  hundred  francs,"  she  moaned, 
"  and  he  looked  as  I  never  saw  him  look  before." 

She  spoke  half  wildlj^,  and  for  a  moment  she  was  certainly 
unconscious  of  Baptiste's  presence. 

"  A  hundred  francs,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  I  beg  Madame's 
pardon  for  meddling  in  what  concerns  me  not,  but  I  can  let 
Madame  have  two  hundred  francs,  before  to-morrow  morning." 

"  You,  Baptiste,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  opening  her 
eyes  and  shaking  her  head  sadly,  "  and  what  should  1  take 
your  money  for  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  put  in  Marie  with  much  energy,  "  what  should 
Madame  take  your  money  for  ?  " 

Baptiste  neither  looked  at  nor  answered  the  last  speaker. 


SEVEN    YEARS,  145 

He  fastened  his  clear  blue  eyes  on  Madame  la  Roche,  and 
said  with  respectful  firmness  : 

"  Madame  has  reared  Fanny,  who  is  all  but  my  wife  ;  all 
I  have  is  hers,  and  all  she  has  is  Madame's.  I  have  a  little 
money  just  now,  and  it  is  heartily  at  Madame's  disposal." 

"  Sti-auge  presumption !  "  meditatively  said  Charlotte, 
commenting  upon  it. 

But  Madame  la  Roche's  eyes  grew  dim. 

"  It  is  Gfod's  will  !  "  she  sighed,  "  ay,  verily  it  is  God's 
will  that  I  should  be  humbled,  that  my  old  age  should  be 
a  burden  on  their  youth.  Come  here,  Baptiste,  here  by  me. 
I  see  Fannjr  and  you  are  reconciled  :  well,  1  am  glad,  Baptiste, 
I  am,  and  I  will  not  stand  any  more  between  you — you  must 
marry." 

Fanny  looked  frightened,  and  Charlotte  and  Marie  utter- 
ed exclamations,  but  Madame  la  Roche  held  up  her  hand 
and  enjoined  silence. 

"  Hush !  "  she  said,  with  something  like  sternness. 
"What  right  have  three  old  useless  lives  to  stand  for  ever 
between  two  young  things  ?  We  have  made  their  hearts 
sore  enough,  as  it  is.      Come  here,  Fanny. 

Fanny  obeyed.  She  seemed  bewildered,  and  like  one 
who  had  lost  all  power  of  resistance.  Madame  la  Roche 
took  the  young  girl's  hand,  and  put  it  in  Baptiste's,  theu 
sank  back  in  her  chair  with  evident  relief. 

Baptiste  stood  face  to  face  with  his  betrothed  ;  her  hand 
lay  in  his,  and  for  once  since  their  first  betrothal,  there  was 
no  resistance,  no  denial  in  Fanny's  looks.  He  f|ue.-tioned  her. 
"  Well,  Fanny,"  he  said,  clasping  her  hand  tightly,  "  what  do 
you  say?  " 

Fanny  raised  her  eyes  to  his  ;  her  lips  parted  ;  like  one  un- 
able to  contend  auj'  longer,  she  uttered  words  of  assent. 

"  As  you  please,  as  you  like." 

The  face  of  Baptiste  fell,  he  released  the  hand  of  Fanny 
with  a  rueful  sigh,  and  looking  at  Madame  la  Roche,  he  said, 
rather  dismally  : 

"No,  Madame,  no,  that  must  not  be;  God  knows  I  love 
Fanny  as  I  love  my  life, — but  there  is  no  denying  it,  if  we 
were  to  marry  just  now  it  might  interfere  with  the  duty  she 
owes  you  and  others,  and  so  we  must  even  wait.  Fanny 
said  so  long  niso,  for  thouo-h  she  does  not  care  to  show  it,  she 
nas  more  sense  in  her  little  finger  than  I  have  in  my  whole 
body ;  but  I  would  not  mind  her,  and  trouble  and  grief  nearly 
befell  us  both.  But  now,"  added  Baptiste,  with  manful 
7 


146  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

calmness,  "  now,  Madame,  my  mind  is  made  up, — and  I  am 
willing  to  wait  as  long  as  Fanny  pleases,  as  long  as  is 
needed,"  resumed  Biiptiste,  with  a  thoughtful  sigh,  that  show- 
ed he  did  not  think  himself  on  the  eve  of  his  wedding-day. 

Madame  la  Roche  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  Fanny. 
The  young  girl  stood  before  Baptiste,  gazing  at  him  with  a 
smile,  half  sad,  half  happy,  on  her  face. 

"  You  know  best,"  sighed  Madame  la  Roche  ;  "  but  since 
you  must  or  will  wait,  you  must  see  Fanny  as  often  as  you 
like,  and  be  as  one  of  us." 

To  this  plan  neither  Baptiste  nor  Fanny  raised  any  objec 
tion ;  but  Marie  boldly  attempted  to  interfere. 

"  Has  Madame  reflected  ?  "  she  began. 

"I  have,"  interrupted  Madame  la  Roche,  rather  testily, 
"  and  I  will  not  hear  one  word  against  it." 

Marie  turned  up  her  eyes  and  shook  her  head,  but  sub- 
mitted for  all  that. 

Monsieur  Noiret's  money  was  paid  the  very  next  morn- 
ing, and  before  he  had  even  time  to  ask  for  it.  Whether  he 
still  thought  that  an  attempt  to  deceive  him  had  been  made, 
and  been  defeated  by  chance  alone,  or  whether  he  acquitted 
Madame  la  Roche  and  Fanny  of  the  unworthy  design,  was 
more  than  either  knew.  He  came  no  more,  and  gave  his  re- 
sentment at  what  had  occurred  no  active  or  outward  shape. 

A  heavy  burden  now  fell  on  Baptiste.  True,  Marie  found 
a  little  work  to  do,  and  Fanny  wa,s  fortunate  enough  to  secure 
permanent  employment ;  but  still  the  wants  of  the  house  were 
many,  and  Baptiste  never  waited  to  see  them  twice  before 
they  were  supplied,  and  time,  weary  time,  passed  away,  and 
he  seemed  no  netirer  an  end  he  never  forgot,  though  he  never 
mentioned  it. 

Sometimes,  not  often,  for  the  indulgence  was  perilous, 
Fanny  looked  at  him  wistfully,  as  much  as  to  say  :  "  When 
will  it  all  end,  Baptiste  ?  " 

And  Baptiste  by  a  shrewd  nod  seemed  to  answer :  "  All  in 
good  time,  Fanny,  all  in  good  time."  And  thus  four  years 
passed  away. 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

The  March  sun  shone  brightly.  The  day  was  fine.  Charles 
said  and  thought  so.  "  Bonne  maman  says  it  will  not  rain," 
he  said,  stopping  short  before  Fanny,  who  sat  sewing,  and 
he  looked  at  her  wistfully. 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  147 

Fanny  sighed,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  And  this  is  a  holiday,"  pursued  Charles,  who  had  grown 
up  into  a  fine  strong  boy,  and  Avho  was  handsome  too,  and 
tolerably  good. 

Fanny  sighed  again. 

"  Poor  child,"  she  said,  half  aloud,  "  he  wants  a  walk,  and 
exercise  would  do  him  good." 

Charles  had  heard  her ;  he  flung  his  arms  around  her  neck. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  Fanny,  do,  do  !  "  he  exclaimed,  '•  do  take  me 
out." 

But  Fanny,  who,  though  still  very  pretty,  had  grown  very 
sober  and  very  grave,  shook  her  head  with  mild  denial. 

"  It  is  a  holiday  for  you,  but  not  for  me,"  she  said  ;  "  you 
see  yourself  that  I  must  sew." 

"  You  could  do  it  to-night,"  whispered  Charles  ;  "  I  know 
you  often  sit  up  by  the  sly,  burning  candle  ends — I  see  you." 

Fanny  blushed. 

"  I  do  not  do  it  by  the  sly,"  she  said,  "  but  I  make  no 
noise,  because  I  do  not  wish  to  waken  them." 

"  Yes,  and  you  do  not  want  Baptiste  to  know,"  suggested 
Charles,  nodding.  "  Baptiste  says  it  injures  your  eyes,  and 
he  does  not  like  it.     Baptiste  is  very  fond  of  you." 

"Of  course  he  is,"  said  Fanny,  quietly;  "have  you  only 
just  found  that  out,  Monsieur  Charles  '?  " 

Monsieur  Charles  looked  piqued,  and  said  he  had  known 
it  a  long  time. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Fanny,  slowly. 

"  Yes,"  pursued  Charles,  "  I  have." 

"  Baptiste  told  you,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no,  he  did  not  tell  me." 

Fanny  questioned  no  more,  but  Charles's  wish  of  imparting 
information  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  so  he  went  on. 

"  I  know  it,  because  the  evening  you  were  out  late,  Baptiste 
walked  about  the  rooms,  and  struck  his  forehead,  and  said  to 
bonne  maman,  '  I  shall  go  mad  if  anything  has  happened  to 
that  girl.'  Charlotte  ancl  Marie  said  nothing  had  happened  to 
you,  but  he  would  not  mind  them,  and  he  was  not  quiet  till 
you  came  in." 

"  And  what  did  Baptiste  say  then  ? "  asked  Fanny,  to 
whom  the  circumstances  recalled  by  Charles,  came  back  like  a 
dream. 

"Say!  oh,  he  said  nothing.  And  now,  Fanny,  do  take 
ine  out." 


148  SEVEN   YEAKS. 

"■  Go  into  the  next  room,  and  see  if  Charlotte  or  Marie  want 
anything,"  said  Fanny. 

Charles  obeyed  all  the  more  readily  that,  he  concluded,  this 
duty  over,  he  and  Fanny  would  take  the  walk  he  so  longed  for. 

Fanny  was  working  in  the  front  room,  minding  the  dinner 
as  well  as  her  sewing.  In  the  second  room  were,  as  of  old, 
the  two  beds  of  Charlotte  and  Marie,  but  alas  !  these  two  beds 
were  now  never  vacant.  Charlotte  was  a  paralytic ;  she  could 
not  even  sit  up.  A  low  fever  had  long  been  wasting  Marie. 
Weary  days  and  weary  nights  were  now  the  lot  of  the  two  suf- 
ferers. Conversation,  laments  for  youth  and  strength  long 
gone,  for  old  times  and  old  happiness,  mixed  with  an  occasional 
tiff,  by  way  of  interlude,  were  now  their  chief  solace. 

"  Ah  !  Marie,  times  are  changed  since  I  entered  the  house 
of  Madame  la  Eoche,"  sighed  Charlotte,  whilst  Fanny  and 
Charles  were  talking  in  the  next  room.  "  I  remember  you 
well,  when  Mademoiselle  Cecile,  Heaven  give  her  poor  soul 
peace,  was  a  baby  in  arms,  and  you  were  as  fine  a  Norman 
girl  as  ever  was  seen." 

"  I  used  to  be  called  la  belle  Normande"  replied  Marie,  lift- 
ing up  her  pale  head,  in  which  two  sunken  eyes  shone  with 
unnatural  fire.      "  People  knew  me  from  my  cap." 

"  It  became  you,"  murmured  Charlotte  ;  "  you  looked  well 
in  that  cap,  Marie,  remarkably  well." 

"  A  rosy  face  and  a  pair  of  black  eyes  would  look  well 
under  anything,"  sighed  Marie ;  "  but  I  liked  my  cap,  I  con- 
fess I  did.  It  reminded  me  of  my  native  jDlace,  a  pretty  vil- 
lage, with  the  Seine  flowing  through,  and  a  clean  white 
church.  Yes,  Charlotte,  I  liked  it,  and  when  I  took  it  off  the 
last  time,  and  took  to  my  bed,  Charlotte,  I  felt  it  was  all  over 
with  me,  ay,  all  over." 

"  Not  all  over,"  said  Charlotte,  "  you  can  stir,  I  cannot." 

"  Stir,"  moaned  Marie,  "  stir  !  would  I  could  not — would 
I  were  in  my  grave,  and  not  a  burden  on  them  all." 

"  I  do  think  it  singular  that  you  will  persist  in  wishing  to 
die,"  said  Charlotte,  with  a  touch  of  asperity  ;  "  you  know  I 
have  a  positive  presentiment  that  I  shall  not  survive  you,  and 
to  speak  of  your  grave  is  just  to  wish  me  to  be  buried." 

'•  I  suppose  I  may  wish  my  own  death,"  said  Marie,  sharp- 
ly ;  "  as  to  the  death  of  other  people,  and  as  to  their  presenti- 
ments, pray  what  have  I  to  do  with  them  %  " 

"  You  have  nothing  to  do  with  them,"  replied  Charlotte, 
with  some  of  her  old  provoking  calmness.    "  You  are  a  passive 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  149 

agent,  a  sign-post  like,  you  do  not  know  what  you  indicate, 
but  others  see  and  feel  it." 

"  A  sign-post,"  said  Marie,  rallying  a  little  ;  "  a  sign- 
post," she  added,  turning  round,  "  ah  !  well,  times  are  changed 
indeed." 

It  was  at  this  critical  moment  that  Charles  opened  the 
door,  and  putting  in  his  fair  curly  head,  said  glibly : 

"  Fanny  sends  me  to  know  if  you  want  anything." 

"  Fanny  might  come  herself,"  said  Marie  crossly  ;  "  she 
might  come  and  sit  here  with  me,  instead  of  leaving  me  to  be 
insulted  by  her  god-mother." 

Charles  coloured  up.  He  loved  no  one,  not  even  his  grand- 
mother, as  he  loved  Fanny,  and  to  touch  her  was  to  rouse  all 
his  childish  ire. 

"  Fanny  cannot  be  in  two  places  at  once,"  he  said  hotly, 
"  and  she  cannot  be  here  and  mind  the  dinner  in  the  next 
room." 

"  I  always  thought  that  to  have  a  god-child  was  better 
than  having  a  child  of  one's  own,"  sighed  Charlotte,  from  her 
bed,  "  but  it  is  not.  My  daughter  left  me  to  go  off  to  Amer- 
ica, and  my  god-daughter  will  not  even  sit  in  the  room  with 
me.     Ah  !  well,  it  is  a  weary  world,  a  weary  world." 

"  Then  you  want  nothing  ?  "  said  Charles,  looking  sulkily. 

"Nothing!"  almost  screamed  Charlotte,  "nothing!  did 
the  child  say '?  Why  am  I  not  to  eat  and  drink  ? — and  have 
I  had  luncheon?" 

Marie  only  moaned  and  said,  "  She  never  got  her  drink 
nor  anything." 

Charles  came  back  to  Fanny  with  the  information  that 
Charlotte  was  very  cross  and  wanted  her  luncheon,  and  that 
Marie  was  very  cross  and  wanted  her  drink. 

"  Well,  Charles,  do  you  think  we  can  go  out  and  take  a 
walk,  and  leave  these  two  poor  helpless  sufferers  who  are  cross 
only  because  they  suffer, — do  you  think  we  can  go  out  and 
take  pleasure,  and  leave  them  alone  ?  " 

Charles  hung  his  head  and  did  not  reply. 

"  And  now  go  in  to  your  poor  grandmamma,"  said  Fanny, 
"  this  is  the  time  when  she  likes  you  to  read  to  her." 

Charles  looked  very  blank. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  read  to  bonne  maman,"  he  said,  with 
more  frankness  than  duty,  "  it  is  tiresome." 

"Poor  child,  I  dare  say  it  is,"  ejaculated  Fanny,  "but, 
Charles,  if  you  do  not  learn  early  to  do  what  you  do  not  like, 


150  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

you  will  find  it  a  hard,  very  hard  lesson  when  you  are  a  man, 
And  now  go  and  be  good.     Your  grandmamma  expects  you." 

Charles  obeyed,  for  under  new,  though  tender,  discipline, 
he  had  grown  obedient,  but  before  going,  he  threw  his  arms 
around  Fanny's  neck  and  said  coaxingly  :    . 

"  You  will  ask  Baptiste  to  buy  me  a  drum,  will  you  not "? " 

"  Why  not  ask  him  yourself?  "  said  Fanny. 

"  Because  he  does  not  mind  me,  but  he  does  whatever  you 
ask  him  to  do." 

Fanny  could  not  help  smiling,  but  she  would  promise 
nothing,  and  Charles,  compelled  to  feed  on  hope,  went  to 
Madame  la  Roche's  room. 

It  was  still  a  pretty,  pleasant  room,  a  little  retired  spot, 
which  the  cares  and  anxieties  of  the  outer  regions  were  not  al- 
lowed to  penetrate. 

There  was  a  kind  and  gentle  conspiracy  from  Marie  down 
to  Charles,  to  keep  Madame  la  Eoche  in  ignorance  of  troubles, 
which  she  would  have  felt  too  keenly,  considering  her  utter  want 
of  power  to  suggest  even  a  remedy  for  them.  The  caution  was 
not  superfluous  :  Madame  la  Roche  had  grown  so  weak  during 
the  last  three  years,  that  she  seldom  left  the  house.  To  sit 
by  her  Avindow,  in  her  arm-chair,  to  enjoy  sunshine  in  fair 
weather,  a  bright  fire  in  cold  and  frost,  and  to  do  nothing  but 
linger  on  through  life,  was  now  her  lot.  She  bore  this  feeble- 
ness and  decay  with  the  gentleness  and  patience  of  her  nature. 
She  might  even  have  been  called  cheerful,  so  calm  was  the 
look  of  her  mild  blue  eyes,  so  sweet  the  smile  that  lingered 
on  her  pale  lips.  Her  greatest,  perhaps  her  only,  pleasure 
was  to  watch  Charles  growing  up  a  fine  healthy  child,  with 
some  generous  qualities,  and  not  more  than  childhood's  usual 
amount  of  faults. 

She  now  saw  him  come  in  with  a  brightening  look  and  a 
ready  smile.  "  Right,  child,"  she  said,  "  you  did  well  to 
come,  I  felt  dull,  and  I  do,  not  to  have  you  every  day.  I 
suppose  he  must  go  to  school,"  added  Madame  la  Roche, 
soliloquizing,  "  but  yet  one  would  like  to  have  him,  for  the 
little  one  has  to  live." 

"Baptiste  says  I  must  know  a  great  many  things,"  said 
Charles,  alarmed  at  a  speech  in  which  he  saw  intimations  of 
being  kept  from  school  for  the  gratification  of  his  grand- 
mamma. 

"  Baptiste  is  an  angel,"  sighed  Madame  la  Roche. 

Charles  looked  incredulous. 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  151 

'•'  Angols  have  got  wings,"  he  said,  evidently  holding  the 
argument  unanswerable. 

"  You  will  know  better  when  you  are  older,"  said  Madame 
la  Roche  ;    "  and  now  read  nie  something,  child." 

"  Shall  I  read  you  the  story  of  Aladdin  and  the  Wonder- 
ful Lamp  ■? "  asked  Charles,  who  was  tired  of  the  classical 
authors  whom,  to  form  his  taste  and  improve  his  morals,  Mad- 
ame la  Koche  put  into  his  hands.  She  seemed  slightly  sur- 
prised at  the  suggestion,  but  good-humoredly  replied  he  might 
read  what  he  pleased.  So  Charles  perched  himself  upon  a 
chair,  and  read  how  the  tailor's  son  married  the  Sultan's 
daughter. 

Madame  la  Roche  closed  her  eyes  because  it  was  unneces- 
sary and  painful  to  keep  them  open,  and  she  kept  them  closed 
because  she  was  soon  fast  asleep.  But  zealously,  with  un- 
flagging zeal,  Charles  read  on.  He  knew  the  tale  by  heart  in 
all  its  windings  ;  no  matter,  it  was  a  wonderful  tale,  and 
thrilled  him  through  and  through  for  all  that.  And  whilst 
the  grandmother  slept,  and  the  happy  child  read,  Fanny, 
after  administering  to  the  wants  of  the  two  poor  patients, 
after  soothing  them  down  with  kind  words  and  a  kiss,  was 
working  hard  and  fast.  "  If  I  could  only  lighten  the  load  oS 
Eaptiste,"  she  thought. 

And  Baptiste  in  his  shop  was  working  with  equal  ardor. 

"I  know  that  girl  sits  up  at  night,"  he  thought;  "if  I 
could  only  make  more  money,  and  save  her  poor  eyes — my 
little  darling,  would  I  were  a  rich  man  for  your  sake !" 

Noble  hearts,  with  whom  love  was  not  selfish,  with  whom 
the  performance  of  duty  was  not  the  cold  absence  of  love. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

Towards  dusk,  Fanny  slipped  down  stairs,  and  timidly 
looked  in  at  the  grim  porter. 

"  Any  news.  Monsieur  Fecard  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  News  !  what  news  should  there  be  1  "  he  roughly  replied. 

"  I  cannc^t  tell,"  said  Fanny,  "  you  see  the  papers." 

"  What  if  I  do  ?  Am  I  bound  to  be  a  newspaper  for  the 
lodgers  1  " 

Fanny  sighed,  but  did  not  answer.  All  this  roughness 
was  the  price  she  had  to  pay  every  evening  for  intelligence 
they  were  too  poor  to  purchase.  Madame  la  Roche  missed 
her  ne-wspaper,  and,  so  far  as  she  could,  it  was  Fanny's  pleas- 


152  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

lire  to  supply  the  loss.  If  Baptiste  had  but  guessed  this  he 
wouhi  have  given  Madame  la  Roc-he  two  newspapers,  rather 
than  have  his  little  Fanny  reduced  to  such  shifts ;  but  the 
young  girl  was  careful  to  conceal  such  necessities  from  his 
watchful  eye, — better  than  any  one  she  knew  the  heavy  bur- 
den her  love  had  brought  hira.  For  this,  putting  away  pride 
and  shame,  slie  stole  down  every  evening  to  Monsieur  F^card, 
who,  after  rebuffing  her,  ended  by  giving  her  a  condensed  ac- 
count of  the  day's  paper.  And  so  he  did  this  evening  too, 
and  that  in  the  following  fashion  : 

"  A  child  run  over  on  the  boulevards." 

'•  How  very  shocking  !  "  said  Fanny. 

"  Then  w^hat  do  you  want  to  know  it  for  1 "  asked  Mon- 
sieur Fecard  ;  '  do  you  not  know  that  newspapers  are  made 
up  of  accidents,  and  murders,  and  fighting?  Why,  there  was 
a  fire  last  night  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  :  a  house  burned 
down." 

"  No  one  in  it,"  nervously  said  Fanny. 

"  There  !  you  want  to  have  people  burned  too — I  never 
heard  any  thing  like  it.  I  suppose  you  will  be  pleased  to 
hear  that  a  man  murdered  his  wife,  then  shot  himself  in  Vau- 
girard  ?     Yes,  yes,  all  that  is  in  your  way." 

"  What  could  he  murder  his  wife  for  ?  "  exclaimed  Fanny, 
turning  pale. 

"  For  love,  of  course,  or  jealousy,  if  you  like.  As  to 
politics,  I  never  trouble  my  head  about  them.  Monsieur 
Thiers  is  in  ;  and  the  king  is  gone  to  Neuilly,  and  they  talk 
of  a  war, — but  what  do  I  care  about  it  all  1 " 

Monsieur  Fecard  hammered  away,  and  Fanny,  understand- 
ing that  he  had  no  more  intelligence  to  give,  thanked  him 
softly,  and  stole  up  again. 

Carefully,  and  without  affectation,  she  imparted  her  little 
stock  of  news  to  Madame  la  Roche,  who  said  with  much 
naivete  : 

"  My  dear,  you  are  as  good  as  a  newspaper.  Where  did 
you  learn  all  those  wonderful  things  1  Going  about !  A 
house  burned  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  !  I  wonder  if  it 
was  JMadame  Guignol's  1  " 

Charlotte  and  Marie  too,  had  their  questions  and  com- 
ments ;  and  with  a  touch  of  the  spirit  of  old  times,  that  made 
Fanny  happy,  Marie  exclaimed  : 

"  She  always  was  a  wonderful  girl." 

And  now  the  day  was  over,  and  every  one  slept  save 
Fanny  :  Madame  la  Roche  in  her  room  ;  Charlotte  and  Marie 


SEVEN   YEAE8,  153 

in  theirs,  and  Charles  in  the  front  room,  where  his  crib  had 
been  placed  that  he  might  be  near  Fanny  in  her  closet,  and 
not  waken  his  grandmother  too  early. 

Fanny  was  still  sewing  ;  she  had  some  work  to  finish,  and 
she  sewed  hard  and  fast.  Now  and  then  her  needle  flagged, 
as  the  street  door  opened  and  closed  again  with  a  heavy  sound  ; 
now  and  then  she  started  as  a  step  came  up  the  staircase,  and 
when  nothing  came  of  opening  door  or  ascending  step,  Fanny 
sighed.  There  is  no  denying  it,  she  was  expecting  some  one 
— Baptiste,  we  need  scarcely  say.  He  came  every  evening. 
No  matter  what  the  weather  might  be,  he  came.  Of  late, 
whether  it  was  that  he  had  so  much  to  do  that  he  could  not 
com.e  earlier,  or  that  he  found  it  pleasanter  to  see  Fanny  when 
she  sat  alone  by  the  crib  of  the  sleeping  child.  Monsieur  Bap- 
tiste managed  not  to  come  until  he  was  pretty  sure  to  have 
Fanny  to  himself.  He  did  not  stay  later  in  consequence,  and 
Fanny  raised  no  objection  to  the  arrangement.  That  hour  of 
quiet  converse,  of  remote  plans,  of  hopes  that  might  never  re- 
ceive their  fulfdment  on  earth,  was  the  only  solace  of  two 
hard-tasked  lives. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  a  little  hart-sickening  that  Fanny 
sa»v  the  time  pass  that  should  have  brought  Baptiste  ;  it  was 
with  mingled  impatience  and  uneasiness  that  she  heard  a  heavy 
shower  pattering  against  the  window  panes,  and  thought : 
"  tiresome  old  Baptiste," — Baptiste  was  so  far  promoted  to 
conjugal  honours,  that  he  was  regularly  called  old  Baptiste, — 
"  he  will  get  wet." 

There  seemed  every  likelihood  of  it  if  he  was  out  in  that 
rain ;  it  came  down  furiously,  and  just  as  it.  was  at  its  height, 
the  street  door  shut  with  a  loud  clap.  Fanny  felt  sure  it  was 
Baptiste.  She  ran  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  listened  on  the 
staircase.  A  firm,  but  rather  heavy  step  was  coming  up,  and 
presently  Baptiste  appeared  emerging  from  the  gloom,  sjuiling, 
and  good-humoured  as  ever,  but  dripping  from  head  to  foot. 

Fanny  welcomed  him  with  a  reproach. 

"  Oh  !  why  did  you  come  1  "  she  said  ;  "  you  are  wet 
quite  wet ;  you  will  be  ill  after  this.  You  are  very  tiresome, 
Baptiste."  _^- — 

Baptiste  received  these  reproaches  with  groat  placidity. 
And,  indeed,  though  Fanny  did  the  best  to  knit  her  smooth 
brow  into  a  frown,  her  brown  eyes  were  so  kind,  and  her 
voice  was  so  soft,  spite  its  chiding,  that  even  a  more  exacting 
lover  than  Baptiste  need  not  have  complained.  Nor  did  he  ; 
he  entered  the  room,  took  off  his  cloth  cap,  shook  his  wet 
7* 


154  SEVEN   TEAES. 

clothes,  and  sitting  down  by  the  stove,  proceeded  to  dry  him- 
self with  quiet  philosophy.  Fanny  sat  opposite  him  and  re- 
sumed her  work. 

"  Every  one  well  1  "  asked  Baptiste. 

"  My  god-mother  and  Marie  are  as  usual ;  Madame  la 
Eoche  complained  of  fatigue  ;  Charles  had  a  head-ache." 

"  And  vou,  Fanny  1 " 

"  Oh,  Tarn  well." 

"  Put  down  that  sewing,  pray  do." 

Fanny  put  it  down  with  a  smile  ;  for  she  thought,  "  I  shall 
sit  up  and  finish  it  to-night." 

"  Do  you  know,  Fanny,"  said  Baptiste,  after  a  meditative 
pause,  "  that  it  will  not  do  so  ;  no,  it  really  will  not.  1  must 
get  you  another  table  ;  that  one  is  too  large,  and  takes  up  too 
much  room." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  does,"  thoughtfully  said  Fanny. 

This  requires  explanation.  Baptiste  and  Fanny  had  got  so 
far  familiarised  with  their  position,  that  they  well  nigh  con- 
sidered themselves  married,  and  were  in  the  habit  of  settling 
together  sundry  domestic  concerns,  like  two  old  married 
people.  The  position  of  certain  pieces  of  furniture  in  that 
little  back  room,  which  had  been  so  long  expecting  Fanny's 
presence,  was  a  frequent  subject  of  friendly  debate ;  Baptiste 
found  a  particular  pleasure  in  altering  and  improving  his  be- 
loved's future  home.  Three  times,  at  least,  had  he  renewed 
or  changed  the  whole  ameublement,  and  there  was  especially  a 
certain  table,  which  might  have  been  said  to  have  travelled  in 
and  out  and  round  the  room,  more  than  falls  to  the  lot  of 
most  tables. 

This  table  Baptiste  had  now  decided  on  removing  alto- 
gether :  it  was  too  large.  And  Fanny  agreed  with  him.  But 
that  was  not  all.  Baptiste  had  another  plan  which  he  impart- 
ed to  his  mistress. 

"  Fanny,"  he  said  after  another  pause,  "  it  is  not  the  table 
I  fear  that  is  too  large,  but  the  place  that  is  too  small.  We 
shall  never  be  able"  to  live  in  it,  especially  if  God  sends  us 
children,  as  I  hope  He  will ;  no,  the  place  is  too  small.  We 
must  have  a  country  house." 

"  What  i  "  exclaimed  Fanny,  bewildered. 

"  I  lino""'  what  I  am  saying,"  resumed  Baptiste,  with  a 
grave  smile  "  I  n'^^e  ^^^^  thinking  about  it  this  week  past. 
Just  listen  "'  '* '  -,  ,  ,        , 

,.     Fanny  shook  her  head  an'  ^""^'^  i^icredulous ;  but  she 
listened  for  all  that. 


SEVEN   TEARS.  155 

"  I  saw  a  piece  of  land  just  outside  the  barrier  yesterday," 
resumed  Baptiste,  "  a  nice  long  bit,  fit  for  a  house  and  a  garden 
at  the  end.  Now  I  thought  that  would  be  pleasant.  A  house 
here,  a  little  garden  with  a  few  flowers  and  truit  trees,  a  quiet 
little  place  overlooking  green  fields,  and  to  which  Fanny  and 
I  could  go  every  Saturday  night,  nor  dream  of  coming  back 
till  Monday  morning.  I  tell  you,  Fanny,  that  for  you  and 
the  children  such  a  place  would  be  worth  its  weight  in  gold. 
It  would  be  life  and  health," 

Fanny  smiled  at  the  ardour  with  which  he  spoke.  She 
smiled  at  the  happy  visions  his  words  called  forth.  She  saw 
herself  a  matron,  a  mother  with  children  at  her  knee,  sons 
and  daughters  growing  up  around  her,  and  she  felt  what  every 
woman  feels  who  dreams  of  sweet  home  ties. 

"  Now  confess  that  would  be  just  the  thing,"  said  Baptiste, 
who  was  watching  her  face. 

Fanny  awoke  with  a  start. 

"  And  if  we  have  no  children,"  she  said.  "  God  does  not 
send  them  to  all." 

"  No  children  !  "  echoed  Baptiste,  looking  blank,  "  no  chil- 
dren !  Well,  Fanny,  if  we  have  none,  we  shall  suppose  it  is 
for  the  best.  I  once  knew  a  man  who  was  glad  to  have  none," 
musingly  continued  Baptiste,  "  and  he  gave  an  odd  reason  for 
"t  too." 

"  What  reason  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  a  woman  had  been  sent  to  the  galleys  last 
week,  and  tliat  a  man  was  to  be  guillotined  next  Monday. 
He  seemed  to  think  the  man  might  be  his  son  and  the  woman 
his  daughter.  I  cannot  say  I  ever  thought  of  that :  though, 
to  be  sure,  children  are  not  always  sent  as  a  blessing ;  but 
children  or  no  children,  why  should  we  not  have  a  little  coun- 
try place  to  breathe  pure  air  in  after  being  locked  up  a  whole 
week  ?  " 

"  Why  !  "  answered  Fanny,  "  for  no  reason  that  I  know 
of — unless  that  we  cannot." 

"  There  I  have  you.  Mademoiselle,"  triumphantly  rejoined 
Baptiste.  "  Let  me  tell  you  that  the  piece  of  ground  I  saw 
yesterday  was  for  sale  ;  let  me  tell  you  that  I  went  and  found 
out  the  landlord,  and  that  it  will  go  hard  indeed  if  we  do  not 
come  to  terms." 

"  But  the  money  !  "  exclaimed  Fanny. 

"  What  do  you  call  that  ?  "  asked  Baptiste,  producing  an 
old  morocco  pocket-book,  which  he  opened,  and  whence  he 
exultingly  drew  forth  several  bank  notes,  which  he  thumbed 


156  SEVEN   YEAES. 

carefully  and  placed  beneath  Fanny's  eyes  ;  "  is  that  money 
eh  ?  "  he  resumed,  drawing  in  his  breath ;  "  but  perhaps  you 
object  to  paper,  Mademoiselle;  well,  then,  here  is  gold  for 
j'^ou."  And  an  old  purse  followed  the  pocket-book  ;  through 
its  silk  meshes  gleamed  many  a  Napoleon,  Poor  little  Fanny 
was  dazzled. 

"  Is  all  that  money  yours  ?  "  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands 
in  amazement. 

"  Every  sou  of  it,"  replied  Baptiste  ;  "  ah  !  well,  my  mind 
is  easy  at  last.  I  am  not  used  to  have  secrets  from  you, 
Fanny,  and  that  paper  and  gold  have  given  me  the  night- 
mare :  that  is  the  truth." 

"  Then  you  have  had  it  a  long  time  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  scraping  up  these  two  years.  This  will 
more  than  do  for  the  land :  as  to  the  house,"  added  Baptiste, 
a  little  ruefully,  "  I  shall  have  time  to  scrape  up  for  that  too, 
I  dare  say,  for  we  are  not  making  haste  to  get  married.  Well, 
never  mind,  what  do  you  say  to  my  plan,  Fanny  ?  " 

"  It  seems  too  happy,"  she  replied,  her  eyes  growing  dim. 
"  We  have  had  so  much  trouble  and  care,  that  it  seems  too 
happy  to  think  of  having  a  pleasant  little  country  house  of 
our  own, — of  course  I  mean  of  the  plainest,  but  still  a  place 
of  our  own, — where  we  could  breathe  fresh  air,  see  green 
fields,  and  have  a  few  flowers.  But,  Baptiste,  the  flowers  will 
Want  watering  once  a  day  at  the  very  least.  What  shall  we 
do?" 

Baptiste  scratched  his  head  and  looked  puzzled,  but  only 
for  a  while.  "  Ah  !  bah  !  "  he  soon  said,  "  can  I  not  go  out 
every  morning  and  water  your  flowers,  and  bring  you  a  nose- 
gay to  cheer  your  poor  heart  throughout  the  day  1  I  would 
say  that  you  should  live  there  altogether,  but  you  see,  Fanny, 
I  am  too  selfish.     I  must  have  you  both  day  and  night." 

"You  do  not  suppose  I  want  to  live  there  by  myself?" 
impatiently  asked  Fanny  ;  "  why,  who  is  to  mind  the  shop 
and  answer  csutomers  when  you  are  out  ?  " 

"  Who  but  my  wife  ?  very  true,  Fanny,  very  true.  And 
yet  it  is  a  sin  to  let  that  house  lie  empty  a  whole  week.  You 
have  no  idea  what  a  pretty  place  it  will  be.     Just  look  here." 

Again  Baptiste  opened  his  poket-book  ;  but  this  time  he 
only  tore  out  a  blank  leaf,  on  wliieh,  with  the  aid  of  a  pencil, 
he  began  drawing  a  house  for  Fanny's  benefit. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  do  you  see  it  now  ?  That  is  the  door ; 
these  are  the  three  front  windows :  that  is  the  roof;  I  need 
not  put  on  th-e  chimney — the  builder  will  see  to  that." 


SEVEN   TEAES.  157 

"  But  I  should  like  to  see  the  inside  of  the  house,"  petu- 
lantly said  Fanny,  who  was  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
neat  sketch  he  had  drawn,  for  Baptiste,  having  often  to  alter 
or  even  to  compose  designs  for  his  upholstery,  had  got  to  be 
something  of  a  draughtsman. 

"  Then  you  shall  see  the  inside,"  he  complacently  de- 
clared ;  "just  watch  my  pencil,  that  is  all.  Those  two  strokes 
are  the  passage  which  runs  through  the  house  to  the  garden  ; 
on  the  right  are  the  dining-room  and  kitchen ;  the  kitchen 
looks  on  the  garden." 

"  Why  so  1  "  asked  Fanny. 

"  That  you  may  have  the  smell  of  the  roses  whilst  you  are 
cooking,  that  is  all.  On  the  other  side  of  the  passage  are  two 
bed-rooms.  If  we  should  want  room  later,"  philosophically 
added  Baptiste,  who  evidently  thought  himself  destined  to 
be  a  patriarch,  "  we  can  just  throw  up  another  floor.  Eh  ! 
Fanny  ?  " 

But  Fanny  scarcely  heeded  him.  She  was  crying,  and 
with  a  familiarity  very  unusual  to  her  coy  and  capricious 
temper,  she  had  laid  her  head  on  Baptiste's  shoulder. 

"  Do  not  talk  so,"  she  said,  "  it  pains  me.  Oh  !  Baptiste, 
my  good  old  Baptiste,  I  shall  never  live  in  that  pretty  little 
house  with  you — never — never — I  should  be  too  happy." 

''  My  darling,  do  not  speak  so,"  said  Baptiste,  looking  sad 
and  troubled,  and  involuntarily  drawing  her  closer  to  him  as 
he  hpoke  ;  "  there  is  the  money  for  the  land,  and  the  rest  to 
build  the  house  with  will  come  too,  God  willing." 

Ay,  Baptiste,  when  we  are  grey.  Oh  !  I  am  wicked  some- 
times, quite  wicked.  It  seems  so  hard  to  spend  a  youth  as  we 
spend  ours,  apart,  forever  apart." 

"  It  is  hard,"  said  Baptiste,  moodily. 

Fanny  gave  him  no  reply.  She  slowly  left  his  side.  He 
rose  and  walked  alwut  the  room  with  some  agitation.  His 
calm  Flemish  blood  was  not  easily  stirred,  but  when  he 
thought  of  shortening  this  long  courtship  of  his,  it  tingled 
in  his  veins,  and  removed  reason  from  her  throne.  But  not 
in  vain  was  Baptiste  gifted  with  that  precious  dower — ^judg- 
ment.  Once,  when  Fanny  proved  faithless,  it  had  given  way 
before  despair,  and  Baptiste,  cool,  calculating  Baptiste  Watt, 
had  enlisted.  But  Fanny  loved  him  now,  and  Baptiste  could 
be  patient.  He  sighed,  took  Fanny's  hands  in  his,  and  said 
emphatically  : 

•'  No,  Fanny,  we  shall  marry  before  we  are  grey,  take  my 
word  for  it." 


158  SEVEN   TEAES. 

"  I  am  not  in  a  hurry,"  tartly  said  Fanny. 

But  Baptiste  was  a  philosopher,  and  pursued  without  heed- 
ing the  rebuff: 

"  And  in  the  mean  time  we  will  build  the  house,  and  trust 
that  God  will  let  us  live  in  it  in  His  own  good  time." 

Whatever  Fanny  thought  of  that  prospect,  she  did  not 
contradict  her  lover.  To  do  so  was  to  tread  on  dangerous 
ground.  She  heard  him,  her  hands  in  his,  sad  resignation  on 
her  averted  face.  Whilst  she  stood  thus  shunning  his  glance, 
her  eyes  fell  on  the  crib  of  forgotten  Charles.  The  child  was 
sitting  up,  his  eyes  wide  open,  staring  at  them  with  all  his 
might.  Fanny  released  her  hands  from  Baptiste's  clasp,  and 
went  up  to  the  boy. 

"  Charles,  what  ails  you  ?  "  she  said,  uneasily. 

"  My  head  aches,"  he  replied. 

She  took  his  hand,  and  dropped  it  frightened, — it  felt  like 
fire. 

"  The  child  is  ill,"  she  whispered  to  Baptiste,  "  look  at 
him,  his  face  is  scarlet." 

Baptiste  felt  alarmed,  he  himself  could  not  have  said 
why. 

"  I  shall  go  and  look  for  a  doctor,"  he  said,  looking  for  his 
cloth  cap,     "  There  is  nothing  like  taking  care  in  time." 

"  Why,  you  do  not  think  the  child  is  ill,  do  you  ?  "  ex- 
claimed Fanny,  forgetting  that  she  had  just  declared  he  was ; 
"  besides,  it  is  too  late." 

"  I  do  think  the  poor  little  fellow  is  ill,"  replied  Baptiste, 
gravely,  "  and  it  is  not  ten  yet ;  so  it  is  not  too  late.  1  shall 
be  back  in  no  time." 

And,  without  waiting  for  remonstrance  or  reply,  Baptiste 
was  gone. 

"  Lie  down,"  said  Fanny,  bending  over  the  child,  who 
obeyed  with  a  moan,  and  again  said  that  his  head  ached. 

True  to  his  word,  Baptiste  speedily  came  back  with  the 
doctor ;  a  mild  grave  man,  who  occasionally  attended  on 
Madame  la  Roche  and  Marie.  Fanny  had  carefully  closed 
the  door  between  the  front  room  where  she  sat,  and  that  where 
Charlotte  and  Marie  slept, — thus  hoping  to  conceal  from 
them  and  their  mistress,  the  doctor's  visit.  The  medical  man 
felt  the  child's  pulse,  gave  a  look  at  his  face,  and  said  calmly, 
but  positively  : 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed.  I  hope  and  trust  it  will  be  nothing : 
but  it  is  scarlatina." 

"  I  knew  it !  "  exclaimed  Baptiste,  "  he  looked  just  like 


SEVEN    TEAKS.  159 

my  neighbour's  children — and  they  died,"  he  added  inter- 
nally. 

"Scarlatina!"  echoed  Fanny,  frightened.  "Oh!  this  is 
a  judgment  on  me  for  the  wicked  thoughts  I  had  this  evening." 

"  I  told  you  not  to  be  alarmed,"  said  the  medical  man, 
gently,  "  there  is  no  immediate  cause  for  fear.  Keep  him 
warm.     I  shall  call  again  to-morrow." 

He  left  them  still  amazed  at  the  suddenness  of  this  unex- 
pected blow. 

"  Poor  boy,  poor  lad,"  said  Baptiste,  who  still  saw  the 
two  little  white  coffins  comins;  out  of  his  neighbour's  house. 

"  And  you — and  you  ! "  exclaimed  Fanny,  with  sudden 
terror  ;  "  oh  !  Baptiste,  go,  go — if  you  were  to  take  that 
disease  and  die  ! — go,  for  God's  sake  go,  and  if  you  love  me, 
do  not  enter  this  place  till  the  child  is  well.  Promise  that 
you  will  not."  She  hung  from  him,  and  looked  up  in  his  face 
with  mingled  entreaty  and  endearment. 

"  And  if  1  may  die,  may  not  you  ?  "  replied  Baptiste. 
"  Oh  !  Fanny,  never  say  that,  and  never  bid  me  shun  a  danger 
you  must  bear." 

Baptiste's  voice  was  inexorable.  All  Fanny's  prayers  and 
tears  could  obtain  was,  that  he  would  leave  her  there  and 
then  ;  but  as  they  parted  he  added  stubbornly  : 

"  Mind,  1  shall  come  to-morrow." 

"  I  knew,  I  knew  it  was  too  happy,"  thought  poor  Fanny, 
when  left  alone ;  "  I  knew  it  could  not  be.  There  must  be 
trouble,  there  must  be  woe,  to  make  up  for  all  my  idle,  happy 
years.  Good  bye  to  the  house  and  garden  now.  I  shall 
never  be  Baptiste's  wife,  never,  never." 

And  with  a  heavy  foreboding  heart  she  sat  the  whole  night 
long  by  the  child,  who  tossed  and  moaned  on  his  little  bed, 
oppressed  with  burning  fever. 


I  CHAPTER  XXX. 

It  was  only  on  wakening  early  the  next  morning  that 
?vfadame  la  Roche  learned  the  truth.  Fanny  entered  her 
room,  sat  down  by  her  bed,  and  told  it  her  as  tenderly  as  pos- 
sible. 

"  Scarlatina  !  "  exclaimpd  Madame  la  Pvoche,  sinking  back 
on  her  pillow,  from  which  she  had  partly  risen ;  "  scarlatina," 
she  added,  clasping  her  hands,  "  ah  .'  God  help  us." 

"  The  doctor  says  there  is  no  danger  .*js  yet,  and  that  there 


160  SEVEN    YEARS. 

may  be  none.  And  really,  Madame,  I  think  he  is  not  so 
feverish  this  morning  " 

"  1  must  get  up  and  see  him,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  rising, 
"  my  poor  boy,  my  poor  child,  he  was  reading  Aladdin's 
Lamp  to  me  yesterday,  but  1  remember  he  did  not  finish  it." 

"  He  will  finish  it  yet,"  said  Fanny,  trying  to  look  cheer- 
ful, and  helping  Madame  la  Roche  to  dress.  As  she  crossed 
the  room  where  Chaidotte  and  Marie  lay,  each  in  her  bed 
awake  and  moaning,  two  complaining  voices  arrested  her. 

"  A  sad  wakening  for  Madame,"  said  Charlotte  plaintive- 
ly ;  "  if  even  I  could  be  up  to  mind  him  as  I  minded  his 
mother  !  but  no,  he  must  be  left  to  a  foolish  little  thing  like 
Fanny,  who  thinks  more  of  talking  with  her  lover  than  of 
minding  the  dear  child." 

Fanny  blushed  very  much  on  perceiving  that  the  previous 
evening's  discourse  had  been  partly  overheard  by  her  god- 
mother. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Marie,  who  had  heard  something  too, 
"  Mademoiselle  shuts  our  door,  and  leaves  two  poor  old  help- 
less things  in  the  dark,  whilst  she  sits  and  laughs  with  her 
beau." 

"  I  thought  you  were  asleep,"  faltered  Fanny. 

"  Asleep  !  "  said  Marie,  "  whilst  you  and  Monsieur  Bap- 
tiste  were  talking  away  about  houses  and  gardens,  and  that 
poor  child  was  ill  with  fever  !     No — no,  we  were  not  asleep." 

"  It  was  Baptiste  who  went  for  the  doctor,"  said  Fanny, 
rallying,  "  and  you  did  not  know  this  morning  that  the  doctor 
had  come,  so  1  cannot  help  thinking  you  must  have  been 
asleep  part  of  the  time  at  least." 

But  Marie  tossed  in  her  bed,  partly  with  fever,  partly  with 
anger. 

"  So  the  doctor  came,  and  you  did  not  ask  me  if  I  wanted 
to  see  him  !  "  she  exclaimed  indignantly.  "  Perhaps  you  will 
say  1  am  not  ill." 

"He  will  come  again  this  morning,"  mildly  said  Madame 
la  Roche,  "  and  oh  !  Marie,  do  let  the  poor  child  have  peace. 
Any  one  can  see  she  has  had  no  sleep  all  night." 

Marie,  whose  ill-humour  was  more  the  result  of  disease 
than  of  unkindly  feeling,  allowed  herself  to  be  mollified,  and 
holding  out  her  hand  to  Fanny,  she  said  afl'ectionately  : 

"  Poor  child,  you  will  have  a  good  riddance  of  two  cross 
old  things  when  we  are  gono.     Will  she  not,  Charlotte?  " 

"  I  was  always  of  opinion  that  prudent  people  spoke  for 


SEVEN   TEARS.  161 

themselves,  and  not  for  their  neighbours,"  replied  Charlotte, 
with  considerable  dignity. 

Marie  leaned  on  one  elbow :  a  contest  seemed  inevitable ; 
but  Fanny  succeeded  in  checking  it  for  once. 

"  You  are  not  two  cross  old  things,"  she  said,  trying  to 
look  gay,  "  you  are  two  darlings ;  and  your  breakfast  is 
ready." 

She  brought  their  meal  in  as  she  spoke  ;  she  served  Marie 
first,  as  best  able  to  help  herself,  then  she  sat  by  her  god- 
mother's bed,  and  fed  her  like  a  child. 

"  Ah  !  well,  all  flesh  is  but  grass,"  sighed  Marie,  putting 
away  the  bowl  of  soup  she  could  scarcely  taste.  "  There  was 
a  time  when  I  thought  appetite  would  never  fail  me,  and  I 
cannot  eat  what  a  child  would  make  a  mouthful  of;  and  then 
to  see  a  stout  woman  like  Charlotte  fed  with  a  spoon  like  a 
baby.  It  is  pitiable, — pitiable.  Fanny,  never  marry,  it  is 
all  vanity, — all  vexation  of  spirit." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  marry  just  yet,"  replied  Fanny,  with 
a  touch  of  impatience. 

"  Ay,  but  you  think  about  it." 

"  I  think  about  my  poor  little  Charles  who  is  lying  ill  and 
moaning,  and  who  did  not  sleep  all  night,"  was  Fanny's  reply, 
"  and  I  think  about  you,  and  my  poor  god-mother,  and 
Madame  la  Roche,  and  all  sorts  of  things  besides  getting 
married." 

"  Yes,  dear,  but  you  think  of  that  too,"  persisted  Marie, 
determined  to  have  the  last  word, 

Fanny  might  not,  however,  have  left  it  to  her  but  for  the 
arrival  of  the  doctor. 

"  Mind  you  send  him  to  me,"  said  Marie,  holding  Fanny's 
dress  to  compel  her  attention,  "  or  if  you  do  not,  tell  him  my 
head  aches." 

Fanny  raised  her  finger  warningly,  and  whispered  : 

"  Let  me  go,  Marie  ;  I  want  to  go  down  for  something  or 
other,  and  meet  the  doctor  on  the  staircase  as  he  leaves  Charles. 
He  may  tell  me  more  than  he  will  to  Madame  la  Roche." 

Marie  seemed  bewildered  at  this  intimation  of  danger,  but 
she  obeyed.  She  listlessly  released  Fanny's  dress,  and  let 
her  go.  The  young  girl  passed  swiftly  through  the  outer 
room,  and  slipped  down-stairs,  scarcely  heeded  by  Madame  la 
Roche,  who,  sitting  by  the  child  with  his  hand  in  hers,  listened 
anxiously  to  every  word  uttered  by  the  doctor. 

Fanny's  excuse  for  an  errand  was  soon  accomplished.  Yet 
in  her  fear  of  missing  the  doctor,  she  ventured  to  question  the 


162  SEVEN   YEAE8. 

cross  porter,  who,  perhaps  because  she  did  her  best  to  soothe 
him,  seemed  twice  as  cross  with  her  as  with  any  one  else. 

"  Do  you  know  if  the  doctor  is  gone,  Monsieur  Fecard?" 
she  asked  timidly,  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  lodge. 

Monsieur  Fetiard  raised  his  turbaned  head,  for  the  cotton 
handkerchief  around  it  was  part  and  parcel  of  his  existence, 
and  bending  towards  Fanny  his  not  over-clean  face,  which  a 
half-shaved  beard  did  not  improve,  he  said  roughly  : 

"  The  doctor— what  doctor  ?  " 

"  Our  doctor.  Monsieur  Fecard." 

"  And  how  should  I  know  your  doctor,  or  do  you  suppose 
there  is  only  one  doctor  in  the  world,  eh  ?  " 

Fanny  did  not  answer ;  she  had  caught  the  sound  of  a  step, 
and  knew  it  was  the  doctor  coming  do\v'n.  She  waited  for 
him  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  He  saw  her,  nodded,  and  would 
have  passed  by  without  speaking,  but  she  stopped  him  with 
the  question : 

"  Pray,  sir,  how  is  the  child  ?  Pray,  sir,  tell  me  the  truth," 
she  added  imploringly,  "  some  one  must  know  it,  and  1  have 
most  strength  to  bear." 

"  If  I  could  say  positively  that  there  is  no  danger  I  would," 
said  the  doctor  kindly  ;  "  but  though  I  do  not  deny  that  the 
poor  little  fellow  is  very  ill,  I  see  no  reason  to  give  up  hope 
as  yet.  There,  take  courage,  my  good  girl,  take  courage." 
And  giving  her  a  gentle  nod  and  a  pat  on  the  cheek,  he  went 
his  way. 

Fanny  was  stunned.  She  had  spoken  of  danger,  but  with- 
out believing  in  it,  and  now  the  doctor  spoke  of  danger  as 
certain,  of  hope  as  doubiful,  and  taking  her  at  her  word,  as 
one  able  to  bear,  he  had  disguised  nothing  from  her.  Fanny 
loved  the  child  dearly  ;  she  had  toiled  for  him  day  and  night ; 
she  had  sacrificed  much  to  his  welfare.  The  thought  that  he 
could  die  filled  her  with  dismay.  Unable  to  go  up  and  face 
Madame  la  Roche  at  once,  she  sat  down  on  the  last  step  of  the 
staircase,  and  tried  to  gather  strength. 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  are  doing  there?"  said  Monsieur 
Fecard,  putting  his  head  out  of  the  lodge.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
take  up  the  staircase  and  prevent  people  from  going  up  and 
dowaV 

"  I  shall  get  up  when  any  one  comes,"  said  Fanny,  sub- 
missively. "  Pray  let  me  stay  here  a  while,  Monsieur  Fecard, 
I  do  not  want  tliem  to  know  1  have  seen  the  doctor." 

"  Then  why  do  you  cry,  if  you  do  not  want  them  to  know] ' 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  163 

was  Monsieur  F^card's  rough  question.  Fanny  did  not  an- 
swer. 

"  You  cry, — you  cry,  because  you  think  there  is  no  trouble 
like  your  trouble.  I  suppose  people  who  have  been  well  off 
cannot  get  it  out  of  their  heads  tliat  their  children  are  not  of 
the  same  flesh  and  blood  with  the  children  of  the  poor.  No, 
no,  they  are  Sevres  porcelain,  and  we  are  baked  clay, — tliat 
is  it,  eh  1 " 

"  I  was  the  child  of  poor  parents,"  said  Fanny,  quietly, 
"  but  if  I  had  been  her  own  child,  Madame  la  Roche  could  not 
have  been  kinder  to  me  than  she  was." 

"  Humph  !  "  growled  the  porter  suspiciously, — for  he  was 
a  prejudiced  democrat ;  "  and  so  the  little  fellow  is  ill  !  "  he 
added ;  "  well.  Mademoiselle  Fanny,  you  think  a  great  deal 
of  your  trouble, — what  do  you  think  of  mine  1  I  had  seven 
children  and  a  wife,  all  in  this  lodge,  in  this  house.  The  land- 
lord threatened  to  turn  me  out ;  he  said  it  was  outrageous — 
that  when  he  took  me  I  had  but  one  child,  and  that  he  would 
not  allow  seven  squalling  children  in  a  room  six  feet  square. 
I  told  him  he  might  turn  me  out  when  he  pleased,  but  that  if 
he  sent  my  seven  little  things  to  starve  in  the  streets,  just  for 
the  sin  of  being  born,  I  would  not  answer  for  what  I  might 
do,  as  I  might  turn  desperate.  The  landlord  showed  me  later 
that  he  was  a  kind  man ;  then  I  thought  him  a  coward, — for 
he  certainly  spoke  no  more  of  turning  out  me  or  mine.  Well, 
Mademoiselle  Fanny,  you  sit  listening  there  with  all  your 
ears,  and  yet  you  guess  well  enougli  how  it  ended.  The  seven 
little  things  that  annoyed  the  whole  house  with  their  squalling 
are  quiet  now.  Gone,  all  gone.  They  dropped  off  like  ripe 
fruit  from  a  tree ;  one  after  the  other  I  took  them  to  the  cem- 
etery. When  the  last  went,  their  mother,  who  had  kept  up 
till  then,  took  to  her  bed,  lingered  a  few  months,  and  died  too. 
It  was  then  the  landlord  showed  his  real  heart,  which  was 
kind ;  he  had  paid  the  doctor  who  attended  my  little  things, 
and  he  saw  my  poor  wife  to  the  grave.  Well,  as  I  said,  the 
place  is  quiet  now.  I  sit  and  work  alone,  and  hammer  away, 
and  grumble  at  every  one,  and  never  forget  my  seven  little 
ones, — no,  not  one  hour  in  the  day.  For  a  long  time  I  could 
not  look  on  children.  I  have  got  over  that ;  but  when  I  see 
people  fretting  over  small  troubles,  I  think  of  mine.  You 
look  very  pitiful.  Mademoiselle  Fanny,  but  you  seem  able  to 
say  nothing, — say  nothing — say  nothing,"  said  Monsieur  Fe- 
card,  hammering  at  the  sole  of  a  boot,  "  I  cannot  bear  being 
comforted." 


164  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

There  was,  indeed,  something  in  his  look  as  he  spoke,  that 
told  of  one  whom  consolation,  hoAvever  well  meant,  was  more 
likely  to  exasperate  than  to  calm.    Fanny  was  going  up  with 
out  saying  a  word,  when  he  looked  out  of  his  lodge  and  whis- 
pered hoarsely  : 

"  I  shall  be  sweeping  the  staircase  this  afternoon :  just 
come  out  when  you  hear  me,  to  ask  me  not  to  make  any  noise, 
and  then  you  can  tell  me  how  the  child  is  getting  on." 

"  I  shall,"  said  Fanny,  and  she  went  up  slowly,  thinking 
over  Monsieur  Fecard's  troubles,  until  the  sight  of  Charles's 
flushed  face,  as  she  entered  the  room  where  he  lay  with  Mad- 
ame la  Roche  sitting  by  him,  made  her  forget  the  porter's 
grief  in  her  own  present  anxieties. 

"  My  dear,  how  long  you  have  been  gone,"  said  Madame 
la  Roche.     "  I  am  sorry  you  missed  the  doctor." 

"  I  went  for  some  candied  sugar  for  Charles,"  said  Fanny, 
"  I  promised  him  some  the  other  day." 

"  I  am  not  hungry,"  said  Charles,  "  I  shall  never  be  hun- 
gry or  eat  again, — never." 

"  My  darling,  do  not  say  that,"  exclaimed  his  grand- 
mother, uneasily.     "  You  will  get  well  and  eat  again," 

But  Charles  persisted  in  declaring  that  he  would  eat  no 
more. 

The  words  seemed  prophetic  to  Madame  la  Roche.  She 
clasped  her  trembling  hands,- and  tears  streamed  down  her 
cheeks.  Fanny,  too,  felt  very  much  inclined  to  cry.  Charles 
was  a  dear  child,  but  there  was  no  denying  that  he  had  a  de- 
cided relish  for  sweets,  cakes,  and  pleasant  food  of  any  kind. 
To  hear  him  declare  that  he  had  done  with  these  delights,  and 
to  see  him  lying  sick  and  feverish  in  his  little  crib,  was  to  re- 
ceive indeed  a  sad  forewarning  of  what  a  few  days  might  bring 
forth.  And  Fanny,  as  we  said,  felt  a  great  mind  to  cry  ;  but 
she  soon  checked  it.  "  Cry,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  what  for  1 
and  what  good  will  it  do  1  None,  but  a  great  deal  of  mis- 
chief Now  is  the  time  to  be  brave,  as  Baptiste  often  says  I 
am,  and  brave  I  will  be." 

And  brave  to  the  best  of  her  power  Fanny  was. 

"  Surely,  Madame,"  she  said  to  Madame  la  Roche,  "  you 
know  better  than  to  mind  what  a  child  says.  Eat  again  !  why 
he  will  eat  before  a  week  is  out." 

"  I  know  I  am  very  weak,"  deprecatingly  observed  Mad- 
ame la  Roche,  "  I  know  I  am,  Fanny," 

"  No,  no,  you  are  not !  "  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  who 
had  no  wish  to  be  too  brave,  "  it  is  I  who  am  rough  and  rude, 


SEVEN   YEAES.  165 

all  because  I  do  not  wish  to  give  in.     Nor  will  I,  no  indeed,  I 
will  not." 

And  to  show  the  strength  of  her  resolve,  Fanny  went  in 
at  once  to  Charlotte  and  Marie,  cheered  them  with  a  tew 
bright  words,  made  Madame  la  Roche's  room  clean  and  tidy, 
then  went  back  to  the  little  sick  bed,  and  insisted  on  being 
left  there, 

"  You  need  rest,"  she  said  to  Madame  la  Roche,  "  you 
want  a  little  comfort  in  your  arm-chair,  and  it  is  rest  and 
comfort  to  me  to  sit  by  my  little  Charles." 

In  short,  Fanny  had  so  many  arguments  all  excellent,  that 
Madame  la  Roche  ended  by  yielding. 

The  day  passed  wearily  enough ;  the  child  slept  heavily, 
or  lay  in  his  crib  oppressed  with  fever.  Every  quarter  of  an 
hour' Fanny  was  called  away  by  the  querulous  voices  of  Char- 
lotte and  Marie,  and  when  she  went  ui  to  them  their  worn 
and  anxious  faces  turned  towards  her,  as  they  asked  in  a 
breath  : 

"  Well,  how  is  he  1 " 

"Just  about  the  same,"  replied  Fanny,  trying  to  look 
cheerful,  as  if  "  the  same  "  were  good  news. 

Madame  la  Roche  was  more  patient.  She  put  no  ques- 
tions, 'but  every  now  and  then  slie  left  her  room  and  came 
and  bent  over  the  child's  crib,  with  a  sad  and  troubled  look, 
that  went  to  Fanny's  very  heart,  perhaps  because  it  was  given 
silently,  because  she  who  looked  so  went  away  again  without 
uttering  a  word.  She  spoke  but  once  :  it  was  to  mutter  as 
she  turned  from  the  bed  :  "  Why  must  the  old  live,  and  the 
young  go  1  " 

The  evening  had  set  in  :  every  thing  was  quiet.  Madame 
la  Roche  and  Fanny  were  sitting  l)y  the  child's  bed,  they  were 
silent ;  but  through  the  open  door  of  the  )iext  room  the  voices 
of  Charlotte  and  Marie  were  heard  indulging  in  that  subdued 
lamentation  which  had  become  like  the  Greek  chorus  of  the 
little  household  ;  its  repining  reproaches  and  exhortations  not 
much  more  heeded  by  Fanny  and  Madame  la  Roche  than  by 
the  heroes  of  the  ancient  drama. 

"  He  seems  very  listless,"  whispered  Madame  la  Roche, 
glancing  from  the  boy's  flushed  face  and  closed  eyes  to 
Fanny's  pale  and  worn  countenance, 

"  He  feels  it  more  at  night,"  was  the  young  girl's  slow 
reply.  She  was  listening  to  the  well-known  step  coming  up 
the  staircase ;  before  he  rang  she  was  at  the  door  to  open  it 
for  him. 


166  SEVEN   YEARS. 

"  How  is  the  child  ? "  were  the  first  words  uttered  by 
Baptiste,  who,  long  before  Fanny  had  wakened  Madame  la 
Roche  in  the  morning,  had  come  to  put  the  same  question. 

"  No  worse,  I  hope,"  was  Fanny's  reply.  Baptiste  en- 
tered, and  was  welcomed  by  Madame  la  Roche  with  the  cor- 
diality due  to  so  tried  a  friend.  On  hearing  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  Charles,  with  whom  Baptiste  was  a  favourite,  opened 
his  languid  eyes,  and  brightened  up  a  little.  Baptiste  sat 
down  by  the  bed,  and  looked  ruefiilly  at  its  little  suffering 
tenant. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  fine  little  fellow  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  was  the  low  reply. 

"  What  shall  I  give  you, — cakes,  sweets  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  moaned  Charles,  "  1  shall  never  eat  again." 

"  For  God's  sake,  child,  do  not  say  that !  "  exclaimed 
Madame  la  Roche,  clasping  her  hands  with  anguish  ;  "  do  not, 
do  not — it  breaks  my  heart." 

Charles  looked  at  her  without  understanding  the  cause  of 
so  much  grief 

"  And  must  I  give  you  nothing  1 "  persisted  Baptiste. 

The  child's  face  brightened. 

"  Give  me  a  drum,"  he  said,  with  something  like  eagerness. 

"  A  drum  !  "  said  Baptiste,  taken  by  surprise,  "  well,  why 
not  1     You  shall  have  a  drum  to-morrow." 

"  No,  no, — now,"  said  the  boy,  feverishly,  "  give  it  to  me 
now,  Baptiste." 

"  Well,  you  shall  have  it  now,  if  the  shop  be  not  shut," 
said  Baptiste,  stoutly.  "  I  shall  be  back  in  five  minutes, 
Fanny." 

He  started  up  and  hurried  down  stairs,  and  stayed  away 
not  five  minutes,  but  an  hour  and  a  half.  At  length  his  step 
was  heard  again. 

"  That  is  Baptiste,"  said  Madame  la  Roche. 

"  Bringing  me  the  drum,"  said  Charles. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  late  ;  I  dare  say  Baptiste  could  not  get  it." 

But  Fanny  had  already  opened  the  door,  and  Baptiste  had 
entered  holding  the  drum  aloft.  Charles  stretched  out  his 
eager  hands  to  receive  it. 

"  Ay,  there  it  is,"  said  Baptiste,  wiping  his  shining  fore- 
head ;  "  all  the  shops  around  here  were  shut,  so  I  had  to  go  to 
the  boulevards  for  it ;  otherwise  I  should  have  been  here 
earlier." 

Of  his  trouble  Baptiste  did  not  speak. 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  167 

Fanny  had  placed  the  toy  in  tlic  cliild's  hands  ;  he  felt  it 
all  over  with  something  like  joy,  tlien  he  said  : 

"  I  shonid  lilve  to  sit  up  and  play  a  little." 

Fanny  supported  him  in  her  arms  ;  Madame  la  Roche 
held  the  drum,  and  Baptiste  placed  the  sticks  in  his  fingers. 
Charles  looked  at  them,  vaguely  smiling,  and  with  his  little 
feeble  hands  he  tried  to  beat  the  French  boy's  ran-tan-plan. 
He  only  awoke  broken  uneven  sounds,  but  still  he  beat  on. 
It  was  a  pitiable  sight :  the  unconscious  child  playing  even  in 
the  jaws  of  death,  and  smiling  in  the  three  weeping  faces 
around  him  ;  for  they  all  wept :  Madame  la  Roche,  slow  bit- 
ter tears  ;  Fanny  as  if  her  heart  would  break,  and  Baptiste 
like  a  child. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

For  a  week  the  child  was  in  danger ;  for  a  week  Fanny 
worked  by  day,  and  watched  by  night.  In  vain  Madame  la 
Roche  wanted  the  young  girl  to  sleep,  and  said  she  would  sit 
up ;  Fanny  would  not  listen  to  the  suggestion.  She  was 
young,  she  said,  and  well  able  to  bear  it.  No  more  would 
she  heed  Marie's  suggestion  of  bringing  in  the  child's  crib  and 
placing  it  by  her  side  ;  for  Marie,  being  already  unable  to 
sleep,  concluded  she  was  therefore  fit  to  watch,  and  resented 
the  rejection  of  so  well-contrived  a  plan. 

"  But  young  people  are  conceited,  that  is  the  truth  of  it," 
she  remarked  to  Charlotte ;  "  they  will  be  in  the  riglit,  and 
are  not  ashamed,  not  they,  to  prove  their  elders  in  the 
wrong." 

"  Very  true  !  "  sighed  Charlotte.  "  I  once  knew  as  con- 
ceited an  old  woman  as  ever  was.  I  was  then  fifteen,  and 
wanted  to  thread  her  needle  for  her.  '  Child,  you  are  blind,' 
she  said,  '  blind  as  a  mole,'  " 

"  The  old  story,"  murmured  Marie,  but  she  had  made  a 
promise  to  Fanny  that  during  Charles's  illness  she  would  not 
quarrel  with  Charlotte,  and,  strange  to  say,  she  kept  it. 

For  a  week,  as  we  said,  the  child  was  in  danger  ;  then  one 
morning  the  doctor  kindly  patted  him  on  the  head,  and  said 
emphatically  : 

"  There,  he  will  do  now — ^I  need  not  come  to  morrow." 

Fanny  cried  for  joy  ;  Madame  la  Roche  cried  ;  Baptiste'g 
eyes  were  dim  ;  and  tears  marked  the  rejoicings  of  Charlotte 
and  Marie.     Charles  alone  laughed  and  beat  his  drum,  and, 


168  SEVEN    TEARS. 

to  his  grandmamma's  infinite  satisfaction,  showed  tokens  of 
reviving  appetite. 

Spite  her  fatigue,  Fanny  felt  very  happy.  Charles  was 
getting  well ;  he  had  passed  safely  through  his  dangerous  dis- 
ease, and  every  one  around  him  had  escaped  the  contagion. 
Once  more  the  heavy  clouds  cleared  away  from  the  horizon, 
and  the  pleasant  visions  this  mischance  had  rudely  dispelled, 
were  again  floating  before  the  young  girl's  eyes. 

Happy  and  dreamy  she  sat,  with  Charles  and  Baptiste. 
Madame  la  Roche  had  been  persuaded  to  go  to  bed  and  rest ; 
Charlotte  and  Marie  were  sleeping ;  Charles  was  talking  to 
Baptiste,  and  Fanny  was  dreaming. 

"  I  wonder  if  Baptiste  will  soon  see  about  that  house,"  she 
thought,  "  I  mean  about  the  land,  of  course,  the  house  must 
come  later.  Well,  it  will  be  a  place !  I  shall  have  roses  and 
geraniums — I  like  geraniums — and  lilacs  and  laburnums,  in 
memory  of  old  times ;  and  Madame  la  Roche  always  liked 
them.  Madame  la  Roche — where  will  she  be  then  1  gone,  gone 
— and  I  dare  to  dream  of  happiness,  and  lay  plans  on  a  grave." 

She  cast  a  troubled  look  around  her,  then  calmed  down, 
and  smiled  as  she  saw  Baptiste's  honest  fice,  and  listened  to 
the  talk  between  him  and  Charks.  The  boy  was  treating  his 
friend  to  fragments  from  the  story  cf  Aladdin  and  his  Lamp. 
Baptiste  was  not  of  an  imaginativi'  turn.  He  heard  him, 
amazed  to  think  that  such  extravagant  nonsense  should  be 
put  into  the  hands  of  children  ;  this  criticism,  however,  he 
kept  to  himself,  and  only  made  one  dry  remark,  on  hearing 
Charles  expatiating  on  the  garden  where  trees  bore  rubies 
and  emeralds,  by  way  of  fruit. 

"  Ay,  ajf,"  said  Baptiste,  "  they  grew  thick  enough,  I 
warrant  you;  thick  as  lies,  no  doubt." 

"  But  it  is  a  story,"  said  Charles. 

"  Yes,  child,  I  know.  Emeralds  and  rubies  never  do  grow 
so  thick,  unless  in  stories — go  on." 

And  right  willingly  Charles  went  on,  whilst  Fanny  listened. 
Oh  !  for  a  pluck  at  one  of  those  wonderful  trees  ;  for  just  one 
of  those  sparkling  apples  or  peaches,  whatever  they  might  be  ! 
"I  know  what  I  should  do  with  it,"  thought  Fanny;  "I 
would  go  with  it  to  the  king  ;  he  would  buy  it  at  once,  and  set 
it  in  the  crown  of  France ;  and  Baptiste  and  I  would  get  mar- 
ried, and  buy  a  little  chateau,  where  Madame  la  Roche  and 
Charles,  and  Charlotte  and  Marie,  would  all  live  with  us ;  and 
truly  we  would  all  be  as  happy  as  so  many  kings  and  queens." 

A  plaintive  voice  disturbed  this  agreeable  meditation. 


SEVEN    TEAES.  169 

"  Fanny,"  called  Marie,  from  within,  "  Fanuy  come  to  me." 

Fanny  started,  and  went  at  once. 

Marie  was  sitting  in  her  bed,  so  ghastly  pale,  that  Fanny 
uttered  a  subdued  exclamation  of  alarm. 

"  I  am  very  ill,"  said  Marie,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  am  going  to 
die,  I  know  I  am." 

"  What  is  she  saying?  "  asked  Charlotte,  nervously,  "  who 
talks  about  dying?" 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Fanny,  trying  to  smile,  "  Marie  feels 
faint,  that  is  all." 

She  called  Baptiste,  and  whilst  she  supported  Marie,  re- 
quested him  to  bring  her  a  glass  of  water  and  eaii  de  Jlturs  oC 
oranger,  a  specific  much  in  use  with  the  French  ;  but  though 
Marie  raised  the  glass  to  her  lips,  it  brought  back  no  colour  to 
her  cheek,  no  light  to  her  eyes. 

"  No  use — no  use,"  she  said,  sinking  back  on  her  pillow  : 
"  my  day  has  come ;  I  am  dying,  I  know  I  am,  and  Charlotte 
says  she  will  soon  follow  me." 

"  Who  talks  about  my  dying  ?  "  said  Charlotte,  "  I  know 
I  heard  my  name." 

"  Go  for  the  doctor,"  whispered  Fanny  to  Baptiste,  and  she 
went  in  to  waken  Madame  la  Roche,  whilst  Charlotte  indig- 
nantly wondered  what  they  me;int  by  bringing  Baptiste  into 
her  room,  and  by  not  answering  her  when  she  spoke. 

Gently  though  Fanny  called  her,  Madame  la  Roche  awoke 
with  a  start,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  The  child  has  had  a  relapse  ! " 

"  No  Madame,"  replied  Fanny,  in  her  lowest  voice,  "  but 
Marie  looks  very  ill ;  Baptiste  is  gone  for  the  doctor ;  yet  I 
think  i.t  may  do  her  good  if  you  will  get  up  and  say  a  few 
words  to  her." 

"  Marie  ill,"  exclaimed  Madame  la  Roche  ,  "  I  bade  her 
good  night,  and  she  then  looked  just  as  usual.  Are  you  sure, 
child,  you  are  not  mistaken  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure,  Madame,"  replied  Fanny,  rather  sadly,  for 
she  had  seen  death  written  in  Maiie's  face. 

"  I  shall  get  up  at  once,"  said  the  lady  ;  "  my  poor  old 
servant  !  she  has  often  said  it :  Madame,  you  will  bury  us 
both."  ^ 

Fanny  returned  to  Marie,  and  found  her  lying  very  quiet, 
but  still  wearing  the  same  look  that  had  startled  her.      Char 
lotte  had  closed  her  eyes,  and  seemed  to  be  thinking.     Ch:'  !js 
was  playing  alone  in  the  next  room,  neither  knowing  w^^i   un- 

8 


170  SEVEN    YEARS. 

derstanding  what  was  passing.  Madame  la  Koche  came  out 
and  sat  by  Mario. 

"  Marie,  what  ails  you  ?  "  she  asked.    "  Are  you  in  pain  ?  " 

"  No.  Madame — but  T  am  dying." 

Madame  hx  lloche  was  startled  at  the  calmness  with  which 
Marie  spoke. 

"  Impossible,"  she  said ;  "  you  are  ill,  I  know,  you  have 
been  ill  a  long  time,  but  it  is  only  some  sudden  faintuess  you 
now  feel," 

''  I  am  dying,"  repeated  Marie,  "  and  Fanny  might  have 
spared  herself  a  doctor's  fee ;  he  is  a  kind  gentleman,  and  has 
got  Monsieur  Charles  through,  but  he  will  do  me  no  good — 
luy  time  i.s  come,  and  I  must  go." 

She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  settled  conviction  that  silenced  the 
words  on  Madame  la  Roche's  lips,  and  kept  Fanny  mute. 
The  return  of  Baptiste  broke  on  their  silence.  He  looked 
disappointed  and  annoyed  :  the  doctor  was  in  the  country  at- 
tending some  distinguished  patient,  and  his  assistant  was  en- 
gaged. 

"  I  tell  you  I  want  no  one  to  help  me  to  die,"  said  Marie, 
a  little  testily,  "  no  one  but  a  priest,  if  you  will  go  for  one, 
Baptiste." 

Madame  la  Roche  was  a  good  woman,  but  she  belonged  to 
the  wide  class  of  individuals,  with  whom  a  cassock  in  a  sick 
room  was  a  sure  omen  of  death. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  said,  nervously,  "  will  not  to-morrow  do, 
Marie  ?  " 

"  And  if  the  thief  should  come  to-night  ?  "  answered  Marie ; 
"  like  a  thief  in  the  night ;  Madame,  you  know  it  as  well  as 
I  do." 

Madame  la  Eoche  felt  helpless  and  weak.  She  looked  at 
Fanny,  she  looked  at  Baptiste,  she  clasped  her  hands,  and 
seemed  to  ask  for  aid. 

"  Marie  will  die  none  the  sooner  if  a  good  man  comes  and 
comforts  her  in  Grod's  name,"  said  Fanny,  resolutely.  "  Bap- 
tiste go  for  the  cure." 

The  obedient  Baptiste  went. 

'*  I  should  like  to  see  Monsieur  Charles  though  before  I 
go,'  said  Marie,  after  a  while;  "  Fanny,  wheel  in  his  little 
crib  to  me." 

Fanny  wheeled  it  in,  and  presently  Charles,  who  had  fallen 
fa.st  asleep,  found  himself  by  the  sick  woman's  bed.  She 
looki-'.l  disappointed  when  her  glance  fell  on  his  slumbering 
face. 


SEVEN    YEARS.  ITl 

"  T  should  have  liked  to  have  seen  his  nice  blue  eyes 
again,"  she  s:iid,  "  but  no  matter,  I  know  them  by  heart.  God 
bless  him,  he  will  bury  the  old,  and  be  a  comfort  to  the  young; 
take  him  away,  take  him  away.  I  have  that  to  say,  I  could 
not  say  if  I  looked  on  his  little  quiet  face." 

Fanny  removed  the  child,  who  had  not  wakened,  then  came 
back  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  Marie  fixed  her  lustrous  eyes 
on  the  young  girl's  face,  and  raising  a  fore-finger,  said  warn- 
ingly : 

"  Mind,  Fanny,  no  waste  of  money  about  funeral  or  all 
that.  It  does  the  poor  dead  body  no  good,  and  the  living 
suS"er  for  it.  I  have  helped  to  drain  Baptiste's  purse  long 
enough.  No,  child,  nothing  of  that ;  a  little  mound  of  earth, 
a  black  cross,  and  grass,  will  do  for  an  old  servant  who  has 
outlived  her  time,  since  she  can  wait  no  more  on  her  mistress, 
but  must  be  waited  on  hei'self." 

"We  need  not  talk  about  all  that,  Marie,"  quietly  said 
Fanny. 

"  And  if  it  pleases  me  to  talk  !  "  testily  said  Marie,  "  if  7 
like  to  settle  what  is  to  be  done  for  me." 

"  Ay  Marie,  but  you  grieve  us,"  and  the  tears  that  stood 
in  Fanny's  eyes  showed  these  were  not  empty  words. 

"  She  always  was  a  soft-hearted  little  thing,"  said  IMarie, 
turning  to  Madame  la  Roche;  "I  have  seen  that  child  cry 
over  a  dead  sparrow,  cry  for  hours.  And  now  she  cries  over 
me,  and  never  thinks :  What  a  good  riddance !  so  much  less 
between  me  and  liberty,  and  with  liberty  love,  and  all  that ! 
No,  no,  not  she." 

Marie's  utterance  of  the  last  words  was  not  sufficiently  dis- 
tinct for  Fanny  to  apprehend  their  full  meaning ;  but  Madame 
la  Roche  did,  and  casting  a  look  from  Marie  to  Charlotte,  who 
lay  in  her  bed  with  folded  hands  and  closed  eyes,  and  think- 
ing of  herself,  as  great  and  heavy  a  burden  as  either  of  her 
two  servants,  she  thought  too :  "  Ay,  Marie,  you  are  right 
enough,  it  would  be  well  if  she  were  rid  of  the  whole  of  us — 
and  free." 

And  now  came  a  sad  and  solemn  scene ;  Baptiste  had  re- 
turned, and  brought  with  him  the  curd,  a  grave  and  quiet  man, 
too  much  used  to  death-bed  scenes  not  to  remain  calm  and 
composed  through  all  their  sadness.  Marie  tliauked  him 
warmly  for  coming. 

"  I  did  my  duty,"  he  quietly  replied,  sitting  down  by  her. 
He  glanced  round  the  room  as  if  wishing  to  remain  aloup-  with 
the  dying  woman. 


172  SEVEN   YEARS. 

"  Yes,  yes,  tliey  will  all  go,"  said  Marie,  "  and  you  will  not 
mind  Charlotte,  Monsieur  le  cure.  I  shall  speak  low,  so  that 
she  shall  not  hear  a  word  I  shall  say  to  you,  and  you  may 
think  this  is  a  ward  in  an  hospital,  as  it  is,  indeed,  with  poor 
little  Fanny  for  nurse  and  doctor. 

"  It  will  do,"  said  the  cure,  as  they  were  left  alone,  and 
bending  his  ear  to  her  lips,  he  heard  her  confession.  When  he 
had  given  her  absolution,  Charlotte  spoke. 

"  Now,  sir,"  she  said,  "  as  this  is  a  ward  in  an  hospital, 
}icrhaps  you  will  hear  me  too." 

The  priest  looked  at  her.  He  saw  no  signs  of  death  in  her 
worn  face  ;  but  approaching  death  was  not  needed  for  him  to 
comply  with  her  request.      He  did  so  at  once. 

When  Charlotte,  too,  had  ceased  the  record  of  her  sins,  the 
priest  opened  the  door.  Madame  la  lloche,  Fanny,  and  Bap- 
tiste  re-entered  and  knelt  around  the  bed,  whilst  the  cure  ad- 
ministered the  last  sacraments  of  the  church  to  the  dying 
woman,  for  really  dying  Marie  was,  though  still  composed  and 
calm.  In  collected  speech  she  thanked  the  priest — who,  after 
lingering  to  say  a  few  kind  words,  now  took  his  leave  —for 
having  come  so  readily. 

'  I  know  it  was  a  late  hour  to  trouble  you  at,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  feared  I  could  not  wait  till  morning,  that  is  the  truth 
of  it." 

"  I  shall  come  again  to-morrow  morning,"  said  the  cure, 
q   ;etly.  _ 

Marie  did  not  contradict,  but  she  smiled  as  he  went. 

Indeed,  sudden  as  was  the  warning,  it  was  apparent  to  all 
around  her  that  Marie  was  sinking  fast.  Her  mind  began  to 
wandei",  strange  speeches  found  their  way  to  her  lips. 

"  And  who  will  iron  Madame's  caps  when  I  am  gone  ?  "  she 
asked  once,  looking  hard  at  Fanny.  "  Not  Charlotte,  you 
know." 

No  one  answered.  A  little  later  she  said,  not  seemino: 
conscious  that  she  spoke  in  Charlotte's  hearing,  "  I  always  liked 
Charlutte;  we  quarrelled,  I  know,  but  I  liked  her.  She  will 
miss  me — but  not  long — not  long.  There  is  an  old  story  that 
if  two  oxen  draw  the  same  plough  together  for  a  few  years, 
and  that  if  one  goes  the  otlier  follows," — then  turning  to  Mad- 
ame la  Roche,  she  took  her  hand  and  said  impressively : 
"  Madame,  God  bless  you — you  have  been  a  good  mistress  to 
me.  God  bless  you.  I  wish  your  two  servants  could  stay 
with  you  a  little  while  yet,  but  you  see  God  takes  them  away 


SEVEN    YEARS.  173 

when  they  are  useless, — it  is  right — it  is  right.     His  holy  will 
be  done." 

She  spoke  no  more.  Her  eyes  grew  heavy  and  dull,  a  sigh 
passed  her  lips,  and  Marie  was  gone 

Madame  la  Roche  and  Fanny  wept  in  silence.  Baptiste 
looked  at  the  dead  woman's  face,  and  seemed  strucked  with 
amazement  and  grief,  and  they  none  of  them  saw  that  Char- 
lotte, recovering  sudden  strength  and  power  in  the  shock  of  the 
moment,  had  sat  up  in  her  bed,  and  was  staring  at  them  all 
with  rigid  face  and  stony  eyes.  She  sank  back  on  her  pillow 
unheeded  and  unseen,  but  with  death  in  her  heart. 

French  law  compels  speedy  burial.  On  the  following  day 
but  one  Marie  was  buried  in  the  cemetery  of  Montmartrc. 
Her  funeral,  though  plain,  was  not  such  as  she  had  requested  ; 
but  Baptiste  would  not  consent  to  economy. 

"  The  woman  who  helped  to  rear  my  little  Fanny,"  he  said, 
'  shall  not  have  a  charity  funeral  whilst  Baptiste  Watt  has  a 
franc  in  his  pocket.      She  shall  have  a  place  of  her  own  in  the 
cemetery,  and  a  stone  with  her  name  on  it  over  her  grave." 

And  Baptiste  spoke  as  stoutly  as  if  he  had  to  resist  oppo- 
sition which  no  one  dreamed  of.  Madame  la  Roche  not  con- 
ceiving that  she  had  the  right  to  interfere  between  Baptiste 
and  what  he  considered  his  duty,  and  Fanny  not  having  the 
inclination,  Charlotte  alone  spoke  : 

"  Baptiste  need  not  be  so  very  lavish  of  his  money,"  she 
said,  "  he  will  have  another  funeral  before  the  week  is  out." 

She  spoke  gi-avely,  and  the  uneasiness  her  words,  confirmed 
by  her  aspect,  created  in  Madame  la  Roche  and  Fanny,  divert- 
ed the  first  strength  of  their  grief  for  the  loss  of  one  who. 
though  often  cross-grained,  had  been  none  the  less  the  true 
and  faithful  friend  of  many  years.  They  sent  for  the  doctor, 
who  had  returned  to  town.  He  found  nothing  the  matter 
with  Charlotte,  nothing,  at  least,  beyond  her  usual  ailments, 
nor  did  she  say  that  much  ailed  her ;  she  complained  of  no 
pains ;  she  only  persisted  in  declaring  that  she  was  to  die  soon. 
Nothing  could  weaken  a  belief  that  was  calculated  to  work  its 
own  fulfilment. 

The  third  day  after  Marie's  death  Charlotte  began  to 
sicken.  "  Now  is  the  time,"  she  said ;  "  the  two  oxen  that 
have  drawn  the  same  plough  for  so  many  years  cannot  remain 
long  apart.     She  is  gone,  and  I  am  going." 

Arguments,  the  gentlest  reasoning,  did  not  shake  Charlotte's 
conviction.     "  Let  me  be  quiet,"  she  said,  a  little  impatiently, 


1Y4:  SEVEN    YEAltS. 

"  you  always  -will  know  better  than  I  know.  Yet  I  suppose 
this  concerns  me." 

And  with  the  same  calmness  that  Marie  had  shown,  though 
with  such  difference  as  the  difference  of  temper  naturally 
warranted,  Charlotte  began  to  prepare  for  what  she  called  the 
last  journey.  Her  first  act  was  to  send  for  the  cure,  who 
came  rather  surprised  to  find  her  presentiments  so  soon  ful- 
filled. 

"  Marie  was  a  good  girl,"  said  Charlotte,  but  she  alwaya 
put  off  everything  to  the  end:  I  will  not  do  like  her." 

Nor  did  she,  for  she  lingered  four  days  after  the  priest's 
visit.  The  end,  as  she  called  it,  came  on  a  bright  April  morn- 
ing, when  Fanny  and  Madame  la  Roche  were  with  her. 

"  Marie,"  she  said,  "  Marie,  make  haste,  Madame  wants 
you." 

And  uttering  the  words  she  sank  back  and  died. 

Madame  la  Roche  calmly  closed  her  eyes,  and  gently  kiss- 
ing her  withered  cheek,  said  softly  : 

"I  outlive  them  all,  Fanny;  Marie,  who  dressed  me  on 
my  wedding  day,  Charlotte,  who  nursed  my  only  child.  I  am 
alone  now — alone." 

Fanny  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  "  Baptiste  and  I  will 
be  your  children  and  your  faithful  servants,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

The  grief  of  Madame  la  Roche  was  calm  like  her  gentle 
nature.  She  missed  them  both,  as  she  said ;  but  then  she 
would  add,  with  a  smile  that  smote  Fanny's  heart,  "  I  shall 
soon  go  to  them." 

"  Pray  do  not  say  that,"  the  young  girl  would  exclaim, 
"  pray  do  not." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,  I  shall  not,"  was  the  quiet  reply 
and  Madame  la  Roche  said  it  no  more. 

"  But  she  thinks  it,"  Fanny  said  to  Baptiste,  "  she  thinks 
it,  and  it  grieves  me." 

She  dropped  her  work,  and  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand. 
She  was  sitting  alone  with  Baptiste ;  between  them  burned 
the  lamp ;  near  them  stood  the  bed  of  the  sleeping  child ;  but 
the  door  of  the  next  room  was  open,  and  no  repining  at  being 
forsaken,  at  lovers  and  their  selfishness,  came  from  the  silent 
beds.  Madame  la  Roche  was  in  her  room,  for  it  was  some- 
what late. 


SEVEN    TEARS.  1Y5 

"  Fanny,"  said  Baptiste,  with  a  suddenness  that  startled 
her. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  up. 

"  Is  not  this  very  like  the  evening  -when  Monsieur  Charles 
was  taken  ill  with  scarlatina  ?  To  me  it  seems  so  like.  Do 
you  remember  what  we  spoke  of  that  evening  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  slowly  replied  Fanny ;  "  you  wanted  to  buy  land 
and  build  a  house." 

"  Fanny,  the  land  is  bought,  and  the  house  is  built." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Fanny,  quietly,  "  the  money  is 
spent." 

"  Just  so,  my  good  little  girl '  the  money  is  gone  :  the 
doctor,  the  two  funerals,  and  the  two  graves — Heaven  have 
mercy  on  their  poor  souls — took  it  all.  And  now,  Fanny, 
why  do  I  tell  you  this  ?  Firstly,  because,  being  almost  my 
wife,  you  have  a  right  to  know ;  secondly,  because,  though  I 
dreamed  of  that  house,  and  of  that  particular  bit  of  land  till 
my  brain  seemed  turned  inside  out,  I  would  not  have  you 
think  a  moment,  Fann}-,  that  I  regret  having  spent  the  money. 
No,  I  am  grieved  for  the  two  poor  old  souls  that  are  gone  ; 
but  though  I  am  fond  of  money — and  who  is  not  ? — I  would 
not  call  back  one  sou  of  this.     Not  one  sou,  Fanny." 

Fanny  held  out  her  hand  to  Baptiste,  who  squeezed  it 
carefully,  and  returned  it  respectfully  to  its  owner. 

"  And  now,"  he  continued,  "  that  is  not  all.  We  must 
think  of  Madame  la  Roche.  The  little  fellow,"  he  added, 
glancing  fondly  at  Charles  in  his  crib,  "  is  getting  on  finely; 
but  Madame  la  Roche  is  weak,  and.  she  gets  weaker  everyday, 
to  my  seeming." 

"  She  doiis,"  said  Fanny. 

"  Well,  then,  we  must  see  to  that.  The  fine  weather  is 
getting  on, — what  do  you  say  to  taking  her  to  the  country  ?  " 

Fanny  looked  at  Baptiste.  "  More  expenses  upon  you," 
she  said. 

"  Not  heavy  expenses,"  he  replied ;  "  besides,  it  will  do 
you  good,  too,  Fanny.     You  are  getting  pale." 

"  And  how  shall  I  work  in  the  country  ?  "  she  asked. 

*'  I  can  manage  and  keep  you  in  work." 

"  And  how  shall  I  see  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Fanny,  bursting 
into  tears. 

"  I  shall  go  and  see  you  often,"  said  Baptiste,  very  much 
moved.  "  But  you  must  not  cry,  Fanny,  you  must  not.  We 
have  put -our  shoulder  to  the  plough,  and  we  must  not  draw 
back.      We  have  taken  a  heavy  duty  on  ourselves.      We  have 


176 


SEVEN    YEARS. 


given  it  already  six  years  of  our  existence,  six  of  our  best 
years,  we  must  not  grudge  what  remains  ;  I  will  not  hide  from 
you,  Fanny,  tliat  it  went  hard  against  me  at  first.  I  could 
not  see  why  I  must  needs  s:icrifie-e  so  much,  but  now  I  do; 
and  seeing  it,  1  am,  thank  God,  willing  to  do  my  duty." 

"  Because  you  are  belter  than  I  am,"  humbly  said  Fanny. 

"  We  will  not  talk  about  that,"  replied  Baptiste,  "  but 
where  is  the  use  of  hiding  it,  Fanny  ?  Whilst  Madame  la  Roche 
lives,  we  cannot  marry.  We  cannot  ask  a  delicate  lady, 
reared  in  luxury,  to  live  in  a  room  behind  our  shop,  without 
killing  her.  Poverty  she  can  and  must  endure,  but  not  a 
change  of  all  her  habits  and  feelings.  And  we  cannot  marry 
and  keep  up  this  separate  home — we  are  too  poor,  or  ratlier  we 
are  not  rich  enough.  Besides,  the  children  ! "  added  Bap- 
tiste, whose  thoughts  ever^ran  in  the  patriarchal  line.  "No, 
no,  Fanny,"  he  resumed  stoutly,  "  we  keep  free  to  do  our  duty, 
as  you  always  said,  and  though  marriage  may  be,  nay,  is  de- 
lightful, it  is  not  liberty." 

There  was  too  much  sound  sense  in  this  for  Fanny  not  to 
acquiesce  in  Baptiste's  decision. 

'^'  Let  it  be  as  you  please,"  she  said,  submissively. 

Several  days  had  elapsed.  The  morning  was  bright,  and 
Madame  la  Roche,  as  usual,  seemed  languid.  Charles  was  at 
school. 

"  Baptiste  says  we  must  take  a  drive  in  the  country,"  said 
Fanny,  rather  abruptly. 

"  Dear  me !  "  exclaimed  Madame  la  Roche,  with  a  sigh, 
"  I  fear  that  will  be  very  expensive." 

"  Oh  !  for  once,"  said  Fanny,  smiling. 

"  Well,  you  and  he  know  best,  surely." 

"  The  carriage  is  below  waiting,"  said  Fanny. 

"Dear  me!  then  it  was  all  settled,"  said  Madame  la 
Iloehe,  with  a  start. 

"  Yes,  Madame,  it  was  all  settled,"  gaily  replied  Fanny. 

Madame  la  Roche  smiled  good-humouredly.  "  I  am  an  old 
child,"  she  said,  "  it  is  but  right  and  fitting"  that  like  a  child 
I  should  be  treated." 

Fanny  helped  her  to  get  ready,  then  assisted  her  down 
stairs  to  the  carriage,  a  phxin  one,  but  with  two  stout  horses 
well  fitted  for  a  drive  in  the  open  country.  Madame  la  Roche 
involuntarily  smiled  as  she  entered  it,  and  as  it  drove  away 
from  the  door  her  face  beamed  with  pleasure.  It  was  so  long 
Bince  she  had  enjoyed  the  pleasant  motion,  so  long  since  pass- 


SEVEN    YEAES.  177 

'ing  swiftly  through  crowded  streets,  she  had  leaned  back  in 
ihat  dreamy  indolence  long  habit  had  made  dear 

But  when  they  had  passed  the  barriers ;  when  after  strag- 
gling houses  came  fields,  with  the  young  green  wheat  waving 
freely  beneath  the  summer  wind  ;  when  farm-houses,  with  farm- 
yards, where  hens  cackled  and  pigs  grunted,  appeared  before 
them  ;  when  wind-mills,  with  outspread  arms,  rose  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  the  dusty  road  passed  through  a  homely  yet  pleas- 
ing landscape,  Madame  la  Roche  brightened  beneath  tho 
watchful  gaze  of  Fanny,  and  said  with  a  happy  sigh  : 

"  Ah  !  this  is  delightful  !  I  almost  wish  Charles  were  with 
us ;  but  I  dare  say  I  ought  not  :  the  child  must  study." 

"  Still  it  would  be  pleasant  to  have  him,"  said  Fanny. 
"  What  a  pretty  place  this  is,  Madame." 

"  Very  pretty,"  replied  Madame  la  Roche  ;  "  tell  the  man 
to  stop,  my  dear." 

A  graceful  little  village,  with  bright  white  houses  and 
green  orchards,  rose  before  them.  A  modest  church,  with  its 
belfry  and  a  large  golden  cross,  overlooked  with  a  motherly 
air  the  clustering  dwellings  below.  A  look  of  peace,  comfort, 
and  almost  of  prosperity,  hung  over  the  whole  place. 

"  Baptiste  said  there  was  a  house  here  where  we  could 
rest  awhile  and  get  some  milk,"  hesitatingly  said  Fanny,  and 
without  waiting  for  Madame  la  Roche's  reply  to  this  dubious 
speech,  she  made  a  sign  to  the  coachman,  and  they  drove  up 
the  main  street  of  the  village. 

The  carriage  stopped  before  a  plain  white  house,  with  green 
door  and  shutters,  and  fruit-trees  nodding  over  the  garden 
wall  at  the  back. 

"  But  this  does  not  look  like  a  place  of  public  refresh- 
ment," uneasily  observed  Madame  la  Roche. 

The  words  had  scarcely  fallen  from  her  lips  when  the  door 
opened.  Baptiste  appeared  on  the  threshold,  and  Charles 
bounded  out  to  meet  them  with  shouts  of  glee. 

"  This  is  very  kind,"  slowly  said  Madame  la  Roche  ;  "  but 
I  fear  Baptiste  has  put  himself  out  sadly." 

"  Not  at  all,  Madame,"  stoutly  said  Baptiste,  assisting  her 
to  alight ;  "  this  is  not  my  busy  time  in  Paris,  and  I  like  to 
look  at  fields  now  and  then." 

They  entered  the  house,  met  by  the  glimpse  of  a  sunny 
courtyard  and  green  garden.  Baptiste  showed  them  into  two 
pleasant  rooms  on  the  ground-fioor  :  a  little  sitting-room  on 
the  front,  and  a  double-bedded  room  at  the  back,  both  fur- 

8* 


178  SE^rEN    YEAKS. 

nished  with  great  simplicity,  but  with  a  certain  taste  never- 
theless, that  could  not  escape  Madame  la  Roche. 

"  Had  you  the  doing  of  these  rooms,  Baptiste  ?  "  she  asked, 
sitting  down  on  a  little  chintz-covered  sofa. 

"This  is  your  place,  bonne  niaman,"  hastily  cried  CharleSj 
who  could  keep  his  peace  no  longer,  ''  you  and  Fanny  are 
going  to  live  here." 

Madame  la  Roche  looked  at  Baptiste,  who  seemed  very 
much  embarrassed. 

"  The  doctor  ordered  Madame  country  air,"  he  said  hesi- 
tatingly, "  and  I  found  these  rooms  for  a  mere  trifle  ;  of  course 
it  cost  me  nothing  to  furnish  them  up,  so  I  thought  that  if 
Madame  and  Fanny  were  here  it  would  do  them  both  good, — 
besides  that.  Monsieur  Charles  could  come  now  and  then  for  a 
holiday." 

"  And  there  is  such  a  garden  !  "  cried  Charles. 

"  The  air  is  said  to  be  very  good,"  timidly  put  in  Fanny, 
who  began  to  fear  that  Madame  la  Roche  was  displeased.  But 
displeasure  was  not  the  cause  of  her  silence.  She  looked  from 
one  to  the  other  with  a  sad  wistful  look,  and  sighing,  she 
bowed  her  head,  whilst  two  tears  slowly  trickled  down  her 
pale  cheeks. 

"  Poor  children,"  she  said,  "  poor  children,  is  that  the  end 
of  all  your  little  love  plans, — to  cater  and  care  for  a  poor  old 
woman  like  me  ?  " 

"  Madame,  it  makes  me  happy,  and  it  makes  Baptiste 
happy,  too,"  simply  said  Fanny. 

"  That  it  does,"  said  Baptiste. 

But  Madame  la  Roche  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  speaking  from  the  fulness  of  her  heart, 
"  no,  no,  it  is  not  the  aim  of  youth  to  think  of  a  poor  old 
woman.  It  is  not  right  that  everything  should  be  given  up 
for  me.  You  would  already  have  married  Fanny  but  for  me, 
Baptiste,  and  now  must  I  rob  you  of  the  only  pleasure  you 
have  left,  looking  at  her  ? — for  I  know  you  like  to  look  at  her. 
I  have  watched  you  often — I  have  seen  you — you  like  to  look 
at  her." 

Baptiste  did  not  deny  the  soft  impeachment.  "  Yes, 
Madame,"  he  said,  "  I  like  to  look  at  Fanny,  but  I  can  look 
at  her  without  seeing  her;  I  know  her  face  by  heart.  Besides, 
with  Madame's  permission,  I  shall  come  out  every  Sunday,  so 
that  I  shall  not  quite  lose  the  sight  of  Mademoiselle  Fanny's 
face." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  growing  more  and  more 


SEVEN    TEAES.  179 

troubled  ;  "  no,  no,  that  must  not  be.  I  cannot  allo-w  it.  You 
mutt  live  by  yourselves,  and  I  must  look  on  and  do  witliout 
you  as  much  as  I  can.  I  may  linger  on  many  years,  and  dc 
you  mean  to  say,  Baptiste,  that  you  -will  not  marry  Fanny  till 
1  die  ?  " 

Baptiste  scratched  his  head  and  looked  at  Fanny,  as  he 
often  did  when  his  ready  wit  was  at  fault.  Fanny  laughed 
coftly  and  put  in  : 

'•  Dear  me,  Madame,  Baptiste  is  not  at  all  in  a  hurry.  He 
Las  so  many  things  to  mind  and  to  do,  that  he  does  not  feel 
time  slipping  away ;  and  as  I  do  not  mean  to  marry  till  I  am 
twenty-five  at  the  least,  he  has  taken  a  good  dose  of  patience  to 
last  him  for  three  years  yet." 

"  1  do  not  believe  her,  Baptiste,"  said  Madnme  la  Eoclie, 
"  therefore  I  am  sure  you  need  not  mind  her.  We  both  know 
her  of  old." 

"Bonne  maman,  why  will  you  not  stay  hero?"  asked 
Charles,  looking  uneasy,  "  it  is  a  nice  place." 

"  Madame  has  not  seen  the  garden  yet,"  suggested  Bap- 
tiste, perceiving  that  Madame  la  Eoche's  resolve  was  begin- 
ning to  waver.  She  did  not  reply,  but  rose,  and  leaning  on 
Fanny's  arm,  she  followed  Charles,  who  eagerly  showed  the 
way.  They  crossed  a  square  court,  the  child  pushed  open  a 
trellis  gate,  and  they  entered  an  enclosure,  half  garden,  half 
orchard,  and  which  low  walk,  covered  with  vines  and  peach 
trees,  divided  from  other  gardens.  A  central  and  broad  walk, 
covered  with  a  treille — the  treille  is  a  gallery  of  trellis  up  and 
over  which  the  vine  creep:^ — extended  cool  and  green  to  a  little 
pond,  from  the  centre  of  which  rose  a  tiny  jet  of  water  clear 
and  white  ;  bright  flowers  of  every  hue  grew  around  it ;  green 
shrubs,  that  looked  very  like  gooseberry  bushes  and  currant 
trees,  divided  this  garden  from  a  little  potager  or  kitchen-gar- 
den behind. 

"  It  is  no  great  place,  as  Madame  sees,"  said  Baptiste, 
coming  up  to  Madame  la  Boche ;  "  cabbages  and  strawberries 
are  not  ashamed  to  grow  here  :  those  are  apple  and  cherry 
trees  :  it  is  a  simple  little  place,  owned  by  a  decent  widow,  who 
has  those  two  rooms  to  spare,  and  who  will  do  anything  for 
Madame,  or  let  Fanny  do  it."  His  eye  appealingly  sought  the 
eyes  of  Madame  la  Roche.     She  sighed  and  answered  : 

"  I  never  could  say  no ;  yet  if  ever  I  ought  to  say  no  it  is 
now.  But  where  is  the  use  ?  if  you  did  not  persuade  me, 
Fanny  would  ;  let  it  be  as  you  wish,  Baptiste." 

Baptiste,  who  looked  thoroughly  happy  at  his  success,  now 


180  SEVEN    TEAES. 

Browed  Madame  la  Roche  over  the  rest  of  the  garden.  There 
was  not  much  more  to  see,  and  at  length  they  came  to  a 
wooden  bench  in  an  arbour,  on  which  she  sat  down  a  while. 
Giving  a  look  to  Fanny  and  Charles,  who  were  far  behind, 
Baptiste  said  impressively  : 

"  I  should  like  to  say  a  few  words  to  Madame." 

"  Speak,  Baptiste." 

"  1  fear  Madame  overrates  the  little  I  am  doing  now;  but 
I  should  like  Madame  to  understand  that  in  my  own  mind  I 
have  not  done,  and  do  not  do,  half  enough." 

"  I  have  DO  claim  on  you,  or  any  one,"  sadly  said  Madame 
la  Roche. 

"  Madame  has  reared  Fanny,  and  Fanny  is  my  w^ife,"  re- 
plied Baptiste,  with  unusual  energy.  "  If  I  were  to  do  ten 
times  as  much  as  I  am  doing,  I  should  not  do  half  enough." 

"vWell,  there  is  one  comfort,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  in 
a  voice  so  low  that  Baptiste  was  not  sure  he  had  heard  her 
rightly,  "  it  will  not  last  very  long."  And  looking  up  in  his 
face  with  a  wistful  smile,  she  added,  cheerfully  :  "  Well,  Bap- 
tiste, as  you  please,  as  you  like." 

Charles  here  came  running  towards  them,  breathless  and 
beaming  with  joy. 

"  Fanny  says  lunch  is  ready,"  he  cried  eagerly ;  "  come, 
pray  come." 

Madame  la  Roche  rose,  and  taking  the  arm  of  Baptiste, 
she  slowly  left  the  arbour,  Charles  preceding  them  both  at  a 
full  gallop,  in  the  vain  hope  of  quickening  their  leisurely  pace. 

They  found  Fanny  in  the  little  sitting-room,  standing  by 
a  round  table,  on  which  a  snow-white  cloth  set  off  a  plain  but 
tempting  meal  of  cold  chicken,  salad,  fruit,  and  pleasant  coun- 
try wine,  not  Medoc  or  clos  vougeot  certainly,  but  with  the 
taste  of  the  vine  fruit  on  it,  for  all  that. 

Madame  la  Roche,  who  seemed  to  have  recovered  all  her 
cheerfulness,  sat  down  ;  she  put  Fanny  on  her  right,  and  Bap- 
tiste on  her  left;  Charles  sat  between  them,  under  the  especial 
surveillance  of  Fanny,  and  exactly  opposite  his  grandmother, 
who  now  and  then  looked  at  him,  and  from  him  to  Baptiste, 
with  a  mild  and  meditative  look. 

When  the  meal  was  over  they  all  went  to  sit  again  in  the 
garden.  Madame  la  Roche  took  the  arm  of  Baptiste,  who  led 
her  to  the  arbour,  and  there,  whilst  he  and  Fanny  stood,  she 
said  : 

"  It  may  be  that  I  reared  Fanny  like  my  own  child ;  but 
for  you,  Baptiste,  I  never  did  anvtlung;  yet  you  have  been  a 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  181 

Bon  to  me.  My  son  I  shall  henceforth  consider  you,  and  when 
I  am  dead  it  will  gratify  me  if  Charles  should  take  your  name, 
and  be  your  eldes^t  son  and  the  elder  brother  of  your  children, 
That  is  all  I  can  do  to  show  you,  Jiaptiste,  that  I  am  grateful 
to  you.  It  is  not  much,  it  is  uothiug;  but  God  is  said  to  bless 
the  love  of  the  aged,  for  He  has  put  a  special  value  on  their 
good  will,  and  I  hope  and  trust  that  mine  will  not  prove  fruit- 
less to  you  and  yours." 

Baptiste  looked  both  gratified  and  embarrassed  by  this 
speech. 

"  If  Madame  thinks  me  worthy  of  being  her  son,"  he  said, 
"  I  will  not  refuse  the  honour.  I  am  a  tradesman  indeed,  a 
workiog-man,  but  an  honest  man  could  be  son  to  a  queen  for 
all  that.  At  the  same  time,  Madame  overrates  what  I  have 
done.  It  really  is  very  little.  As  to  Monsieur  Charles,"  he 
added,  laying  his  hand  on  the  head  of  the  boy,  who  looked  up 
at  him  with  settled  gravity,  "  I  have  loved  him  like  my  own 
child,  ever  since  he  had  scarlatina,  and  if  he  takes  the  name 
of  Watt,  he  will  take  an  honest  name,  though  not  a  great  one; 
but,  with  Madame's  permission,  we  will  let  him  decide  that 
matter  as  he  grows  up.  I  am  not  proud,  but  I  should  not  like 
him  to  repent  it." 

Madame  la  Roche  smiled.  Fanny  passed  her  arm  within 
Baptiste's,  and  said  with  fond  mockery  : 

"  Did  Madame  ever  hear  Baptiste  make  such  a  long  speech 
before?  I  never  did,  and  I  doubt  if  I  ever  shall  again,"  she 
added  gravely,  "  his  eloquence  is  exhausted." 

"  Do  not  mind  her,  Baptiste,"  said  Madame  la  Roche, 
"  she  talks  so  because  she  likes  you." 

"  Mind  her  ! "  echoed  Baptiste,  shaking  with  subdued 
laughter,  "  mind  Fanny!  Oh!  Madame,  I  have  long  given  that 
up.     I  should  have  lost  my  senses  years  ago  if  I  minded  her." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  said  Fanny,  looking  much  piqued,  "  you 
shall  not  have  the  trouble  of  minding  me  any  more  to-day." 
She  loosened  her  arm  from  his,  and  darted  oflf,  calling  Charles, 
who  readily  followed. 

"  She  will  come  back,"  said  Madame  la  Roche. 

"  No,"  said  Baptiste,  calmly,  "  I  do  not  think  she  will, 
but  I  cannot  help  it.  Fanny  would  drive  me  wild  if  I  did  not 
put  her  down  a  little  now  and  then.  She  sulks  a  while,  then 
comes  round  of  her  own  accord,  and  is  pleasanter  than  ever." 

From  which  speech  Madame  la  Roche  perceived  that,  slow 
and  heavy  as  Baptiste  was,  he  had  acquired  some  practical 
knowledge  of  the  best  way  to  manage  his  warm-hearted,  but 


182  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

capricious  mistress.  Most  stoical,  indeed,  was  the  firmness  he 
displayed  under  her  present  displeasure.  Fanny  did  not  ap- 
pear for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  Eaptiste  did  not  look  for  her: 
she  was  even  out  of  the  way  when  it  was  time  for  him  to  go, 
and  JBaptiste  merely  said  : 

"  1  am  sorry  Fanny  is  not  here,  for  me  to  hid  her  good 
night;  "  but  he  said  it  cheerfully,  and  went  away  without  be- 
traying any  signs  of  emotion.  And  yet  Baptiste  was  thought- 
ful, perhaps  he  was  even  sad  by  the  time  he  reached  the  end 
of  the  village,  and  sat  on  a  stone  waiting  for  the  public  convey- 
ance that  was  to  take  him  on  to  Paris. 

The  evening  was  fine  and  bright ;  rosy  clouds  flushed  the 
pale  and  lofty  sky  ;  large  and  beautiful  the  stars  came  forth  ; 
the  country  round  was  quiet,  and  seemed  to  sink  into  repose ; 
a  balmy  breath  came  from  fields  and  orchards,  but  Baptiste 
saw  and  heeded  nothing.  "  That  girl  is  tiresome,"  he  thought. 
"  She  knows  I  am  going ;  she  knows  it  makes  my  heart  ache 
to  go  without  having  a  parting  look  from  her,  and  yet  she 
hides  just  to  vex  me.  God  forgive  her,  the  mischievous  little 
monkey." 

He  sighed,  and  started  as  a  rose  was  thrown  plump  in  his 
face.  Baptiste  looked  up,  and  there,  standing  on  a  bank  be- 
fore him,  he  beheld  Fanny  and  Charles  looking  at  him  and 
laughing.      His  face  lit  up  and  his  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  joy. 

"  Ah,  Fanny,"  he  said,  rising  and  advancing  towards  her, 
"  that  is  like  a  good  little  girl." 

"  What  is  ?  "  asked  Fanny  ;  "  do  you  mean  to  say  that  I 
came  here  to  see  one  who  chose  to  leave  without  bidding  me 
good  evening  ?  I  beg  you  will  think  no  such  a  thing.  I  came 
because  Madame  wished  me  and  Charles  to  take  a  walk  in  the 
fields,  that  is  all." 

But  Baptiste  knew  better ;  he  leaped  up  on  the  bank,  and 
was  by  her  side  clasping  her  hand,  and  looking  at  her  fondly. 

Fanny  smiled,  and  sent  ofi'  Charles  to  gather  the  wild 
flowers  which  grew  in  profusion  everywhere  around  them. 

"  So  you  thought  to  go  ofi^  so  ?  "  she  said,  when  they  were 
comparatively  alone.  "  Very  proper  behaviour,  indeed — you 
will  make  a  nice  husband,  sir." 

But  Fanny  had,  unconsciously,  touched  a  dangerous  chord. 
Baptiste  seized  both  her  hands. 

"  Fanny — Fanny  !  "  he  cried,  "  how  long  is  this  to  last  ? 
Life  is  short,  and  youth  is  still  shorter.  I  sometimes  think  I 
am  mad  to  give  you  up  as  I  do,  day  after  day.  What  other  joy 
s>r  pleasure,  but  you,  have  I  ever  thought  of?     Never  one. 


SEVEN   TEARS.  183 

Fanny,  never  one  !  And  we  cannot,  the  wisest  and  the  most  so 
bar  of  us,  we  cannot  live  without  something.  There  are  times, 
Fanny,  when  I  feel  it  too  much.  When  I  want  you  so,  tliat 
it  drives  me  crazy.  What  was  I  thinking  of  when  you  threw 
that  rose  at  me  ?  I  was  thinking,  if  my  little  Fanny  were  my 
wife,  she  would  not  dare  to  serve  me  so.  She  could  not,  which 
is  better  still.  What  wife  would  have  the  heart  to  let  her 
husband  go  without  a  word,  without  a  kiss?  i\nd  until  thai 
little  torment  is  my  wife,  she  will  treat  me  thus — I  thought  all 
that,  Fanny — and  now  I  tell  you,  we  mut<t  get  married  soon." 

His  hands  trembled  as  they  clasped  hers ;  he  spoke  with  a 
subdued  vehemence  that  made  Fanny's  heart  sink,  for  passion 
in  the  calm  is  always  terrible  to  behold.  She  felt  conquered 
and  weak,  a  mere  woman  in  man's  power,  without  the  strength 
to  resist  or  protest.  She  looked  up  at  the  calm  sky,  wonder- 
ing why  right  was  so  hard  a  battle  to  win,  and  why  what  was 
easy  was  not  ever  right. 

"Baptiste,"  she  said,  in  a  low  sad  voice,  "I  will  do  what 
you  please,  what  you  like." 

The  calm  submissive  tone,  the  acquiescent  words,  dispelled 
at  once  Baptiste's  outbreak  of  passion.  He  relaxed  his  hold 
of  Fanny's  hands,  his  head  fell,  and  by  the  time  Charles  came 
bounding  back  to  them  with  his  hands  full  of  tlowers,  and  his 
face  flu^hed  with  pleasure,  Baptiste  was  almost  calm. 

"  Poor  little  Fanry,"  he  said,  "  I  tease  and  trouble  you  for 
nothing,  and  you  have  twice  as  much  sense  as  I  have,  but  you 
see  a  word  at  the  wrong  time  will  upset  the  wisest,  of  which  I 
am  not.  Heaven  knows.  Well,  these  are  fine  flowers — and  that 
is  the  coach  coming,  so  good  night,  and  good  bye." 

And  not  trusting  himself  with  a  word  or  a  look,  Baptiste 
left  them  abruptly,  and  jumping  down  the  bank,  entered  at 
once  the  carriage,  which  was  rattling  past,  and  rolled  down 
the  stony  road  without  stopping. 

Fanny  stood  and  looked  like  one  dreaming.  The  moon 
was  rising,  when,  taking  the  child's  hand,  she  slowly  went  back 
throvigh  quiet  fields  to  the  little  house  where  Madame  la  Roche 
sat  waiting. 

"  Vv^'ell,  my  dear,  it  is  all  made  up,"  she  said,  cheerfully. 

"  Oh  yes,  Madame,  all  made  up,"  echoed  Fanny,  trying  to 
look  gay  ;  but  Madame  la  Roche  detected  the  efi'ort,  the  sad 
look,  the  wan  cheek,  the  listless  smile.  She  took  the  young 
girl's  hands  and  pressed  them  kindly  : 

"  You  will  soon  be  Baptiste's  wife,"  she  said,  "  I  am  sure 
you  will." 


184  SEVEN    YEARS. 

"  We  are  not  in  a  Imrry,"  replied  Fanny^  smiling;. 

"  No,  my  dear,  but  you  will  soon  be  his  wife  for  all  that.' 

Fanny  got  nervous. 

"  Oh  !  pray  Madame,"  she  exclaimed,  "  have  no  present! 
ments,  pray  do  not." 

''  1  cannot  help  it,"  said  Madame  la  Roche  ;  "  there  always 
have  been  presentiments  in  our  family,  and  I  think  it  was  by 
living  with  me  and  in  the  old  house  so  long,  that  Marie  and 
Charlotte  took  theirs.  I  assure  you,  child,  such  things  are 
contagious.  But  I  see  it  makes  you  fret.  We  will  say  no 
more  about  it." 

Fanny  went  to  rest  "-ith  a  troubled  heart.  What  if 
Madame  la  Roche  were  going  to  die  too!  What  if  her  free- 
dom were  to  spring  from  +hat  gentle  grave !  The  thought 
sickened  her.  She  prayed  ardently,  fervently  for  anything — 
anything  but  that  sad  liberty. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

The  presentiment  of  Madame  la  Roche  took  time  for  its 
fulfilment.  That  summer  passed,  and  still  she  lived,  and  not 
merely  did  she  live,  but  her  health  improved  with  country  air. 
Sometimes  she  said : 

"  I  really  feel  as  if  I  were  getting  strong.  It  is  very 
strange,  for  I  know  my  time  is  running  short,  of  course  it  is; 
and  yet  I  certainly  feel  stronger  than  when  I  came  here." 

"  And  is  not  that  what  Baptiste  wanted  ?  "  Fanny  would 
answer  gaily  ;  "  is  it  not  for  that  we  are  here  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  certainly  look  better,"  meditatively  replied 
Madame  la  Roche,  "  you  look  rosier,  you  are  plumper.  Has 
Baptiste  noticed  it  ?  " 

Fanny  did  not  know,  but  thought  that  Charles,  too,  was 
impioved  ;  to  which  Madame  la  Roche  assented.  The  boy 
was  with  them;  the  village  boasted  a  tolerably  good  day- 
school,  of  which  he  was  a  pupil,  and  where,  according  to  the 
master's  report,  he  made  very  fair  progress.  He  spent  his  Sun- 
days and  holidays  at  home  with  his  grandmother,  Fanny,  and 
Baptiste,  who,  no  matter  what  the  weather  might  be,  never  failed 
to  come.  Perhaps  without  those  weekly  visits  neither  he  nor 
Fanny  could  have  borne  this  long  separation.  As  it  was,  they 
endured  it  very  well,  until,  with  autumn  and  the  first  chill 
blasts,  came  reunion. 

On  a  cool  though  clear  October  morning  Madame  la  Roche 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  185 

Fanny,  and  the  cliild  returned  to  Paris.  The  face  of  Madame 
la  Iloclie  saddened  as  she  entered  the  crowded  streets ;  poor 
Fanny,  to  whom  winter  brought  the  daily  society  of  Baptiste, 
was  glad,  and  could  not  prevent  joy  fi-om  beaming  in  her  face. 
Charles,  like  all  children,  was  delighted  with  the  change.  As 
they  entered  the  house  Madame  la  Roche  sighed :  it  was 
darker  and  more  dismal  than  she  had  thought  it. 

"  How  black  the  yard  looks,"  she  whispered,  as,  leaning 
on  Fanny's  arm,  she  painfully  ascended  the  four  floors  that  led 
to  their  apartment,  "  and  how  unpleasantly  Monsieur  Focard 
growled  as  he  gave  you  that  letter  :  I  am  afraid,  I  really  am, 
that  he  is  a  bad-tempered  man — and  not  very  clean." 

"  He  is  kinder  than  he  looks,"  said  Fanny,  "  and  do  you 
know,  Madame,  I  like  this  old  house  :  it  feels  friendly." 

"  Does  it  ?  "  sadly  answered  Madame  la  Roche. 

They  had  reached  the  door ;  it  opened  before  they  had 
time  to  ring,  and  Baptiste  stood  smilhig  on  the  threshold, 
ready  to  bid  them  welcome. 

"  That  is  why  Fanny  feels  the  house  friendly,"  said 
Madame  la  Roche,  smiling.  "  Well,  so  do  I,  too,  with  such  a 
friend." 

But  do  what  she  would  she  looked  melancholy,  her  eyes 
grew  dim  as  she  entered  the  silent  rooms  that  spoke  too  elo- 
quently of  her  old  servants. 

"  Poor  Charlotte,  poor  Marie ! "  exclaimed  Madame  la 
Roche,  "  it  seems  unnatural  to  have  survived  them  so  long. 
But  I  shall  soon  go  ;   I  feel  it,  child,  I  feel  it." 

Fanny  did  not  now  think  quite  so  much  as  at  first  of  Madame 
la  Roche's  presentiments,  and  without  answering  remarks  that 
seemed  to  require  no  answer,  she  handed  Madame  la  Roche 
the  letter  which  she  had  received  from  Monsieur  Fecard. 

"It  came  last  night,"  said  Fanny,  "but  Monsieur  Fecard 
knew  we  were  to  be  here  this  morning,  so  he  did  not  for- 
ward it." 

"  A  letter  !  "  musingly  said  Madame  la  Roche,  holding  it 
in  her  hand,  "  Why,  no  one  ever  writes  to  me  now.  What 
can  it  be  about,  and  from  whom  ?  All  my  old  friends  have 
forsaken  me — they  really  have." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  from  Monsieur  Noiret,"  hesitatingly  sug- 
gested Fanny. 

"  Oh  no,  child,  it  is  not.  Monsieur  Noiret  is  too  much  a 
man  of  the  world  to  care  any  more  about  me — no — no." 

She  broke  the  seal  as  she  spoke.  Something  strange  there 
was  in  that  letter,  for  Madame  la   Roche  read  it  three  times 


186  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

over,  before  she  believed  in  its  contents.  "  Fanny,"  she  said 
at  length,  "  your  presentiment  did  not  deceive  you — Monsieur 
Noiret  is  dead  ! "  And  she  sank  dovfn  in  a  chair  and  burst 
into  tears. 

Fanny  did  not  weep,  but  she  was  shocked.  She  remem- 
bered kindnesses,  which,  though  not  disinterested,  were  yet 
kindnesses ;  perhaps  too  she  remembered  Monsieur  Noiret's 
love  for  her,  and  wondered  what  she  would  have  felt  had  she 
married  him  and  been  left  a  widow. 

"  You  would  have  been  a  rich  woman,"  said  Baptiste,  who 
stood  close  by,  who  had  heard  all,  and  was  watching  her,  and 
thus  seemed  to  answer  her  secret  thoughts.  Fanny  looked  up 
and  smiled  sadly. 

"  A  rich  woman,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "  but  at  what 
price,  Baptiste?  It  would  have  been  a  hard  struggle  to  have 
loved  that  old  man,  and  it  would  have  been  shameful  not  to 
love  him.  Thank  Grod,  apart  from  losing  you,  thank  God.  I 
say  that  I  «as  naved  from  this." 

"  Tljis  is  a  hard  case !  "  ejaculated  Madame  la  Roche,  clasp- 
ing lier  hands;  "  a  very  hard  case ;  I  wish  I  knew  what  I  feel 
exactly.  It  seems  to  me  I  am  sorry,  truly  sorry,  for  Mon- 
sieur Noiret's  death.  And  yet  I  cannot  help  being  glad,  not 
at  his  death, — no,  I  am  sure  it  is  not  at  that,  but  at  those  five 
hundred  francs  a  year  he  has  left  me  !  " 

"  Five  hundred  fnincs  a  year  !  "  echoed  Fiinny. 

"  Yes,  dear.  So  hi ;  lawyer  says,  and  he  would  not  deceive 
me.  But  I  repeat  it,  I  am  truly  sorry  he  is  dead.  Monsieur 
Noiret,  my  old  friend,  v/ho  long  did  his  best  to  serve  me,  and 
who,  it  appears,  had  not  entirely  forgotten  me,  as  I  thought ; 
but  we  are  very  prone  to  judge  and  think  evil  -we  are." 

Monsieur  Noiret  had,  indeed,  bequeathed  five  hundred 
francs  a  year  to  Madame  la  Roclie,  only  for  her  lifetime,  it  is 
true,  but  still  the  bequest,  prompted  by  compassionate  regret 
for  the  past,  was  unexpected.  Her  first  perplexed  feeling  of 
not  knowing  whether  she  was  glad  or  sorry  over,  Madame  la 
Roche  was  quietly  pleased  at  this  little  piece  of  good  fortune. 

"  I  am  glad,  I  really  am,"  she  said,  with  a  sparkle  in  her 
blue  eye;  "  I  know  that  Baptiste  need  not  now  spend  all  his 
money  on  me,  and,  Baptiste,  will  you  do  me  a  favour  ?  will  you 
make  me  happy  ?  " 

"  And  marry  Fanny,"  said  Baptiste,  smiling. 

"  Just  so  :  but  how  did  you  know  I  meant  that  ?  " 

"  I  saw  it  in  Madame's  eyes." 

"  Yes,  marry  Fanny.     I  am  now  quite  a  rich  woman.     1 


8EYEN   TEARS.  187 

have  nine  hundred  francs  a  year.  Lei  me  have  the  happiness 
of  seeing  Fanny  yonr  wife  before  I  die." 

Baptiste  looked  at  Fanny,  whose  lips  uttered  no  denial. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Baptiste,  emphatically,  "  this  day  month, 
Madame." 

"  Let  me  see,  is  to-day  Friday  ?  "  anxiously  interrupted 
Madame  la  Roche.  "You  know  how  uulucky  it  was  of  you, 
Baptiste,  to  fix  on  a  Friday  seven  years  ago." 

"  To-day  is  Thursday,"  said  Baptiste. 

"  Thursday  will  do,"  replied  Madame  la  Boche,  "and  you 
can  see  Fanny  as  often  as  you  please.  Neither  Charlotte  nor 
Marie  are  here  to  interfere." 

Silent  tears  accompanied  the  last  words,  but  Baptiste  was 
in  too  great  a  fever  at  this  unexpected  decision,  and  Fanny  was 
too  much  troubled  at  this  sudden  change  in  all  her  plans,  for 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to  marry  till  she  was  grey,  to 
soothe  the  sad  recollections  Madame  la  Roche  cherished. 

"  Mind,  Fanny,"  said  Baptiste,  as  they  parted,  "  it  must  be 
in  a  month  this  time ;  you  may  stay  with  Madame  la  Roche 
whilst  she  lives,  but  I  cannot  have  another  disappointment.  I 
cannot." 

"  There  will  be  none,"  said  Fanny,  positively  ;  "  Madame 
la  Roche  says  I  have  acquired  the  ftxculty  of  presentiment  from 
living  with  her,  and  take  my  word  for  it,  there  will  be  none." 

"  God  hear  you,  Fanny." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

There  was  no  disappointment.  On  a  mild  November  day 
Fanny  and  Baptiste  were  married  quietly  and  happily. 

No  crowd  of  guests  escorted  them  to  the  altar,  no  rejoicing 
friends  sat  down  with  them  at  that  day's  dinner,  but  Charles 
was  merry,  Fanny  looked  happy,  and  Baptiste  looked  happier, 
and  happiest  of  all  looked  Madame  la  Roche. 

"  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  both  how  glad  I  am,"  she  said, 
simply,  "  and  I  really  think  that  if  he  saw  you  now  so  good, 
so  pleased,  Monsieur  Noiret  too  would  be  glad  to  have  brought 
about,  or  helped  to  bring  about,  this  your  happy  wedding  day, 
for  I  know  I  should  never  have  been  able  to  persuade  you  to 
marry  without  that  little  legacy  of  his." 

Baptiste  looked  puzzled,  and  Fanny  smiled  mischievously. 

"  I  am  not  sure  there  is  so  much  cause  for  congratulation,'" 


188  SEVEN   YEARS. 

slie  said ;  "  did  Madame  overhear  the  man  at  the  Mairie  this 
morning  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  the  mayor,  who  made  you  make  that  dread- 
ful promise  to  obey  Baptiste  ?  "  asked  Madame  la  Roche,  for 
Vfhy  woman  should  obey  man,  she  could  not  imagine  ! 

"  Oh  !  no,  not  the  mayor,"  said  Fanny,  "  but  a  man  who 
said  to  another  :  '  I  remember  her  :  she  was  a  pretty  girl  seven 
years  ago.'  " 

"  He  knew  nothing  about  it,"  roundly  said  Baptiste. 
"  You  were  not  pretty  seven  years  ago  :  you  were  sallow  and 
thin  ;  but  you  became  pretty  as  time  went  on ;  did  she  not, 
Madame  ?  " 

"  I  always  thought  Fanr.y  good  looking,"  said  Madame  la 
Koche,  with  mild  gravity. 

"  At  all  events,  the  man  said  I  was  pretty  seven  years  ago, 
which  means  plainly  I  am  not  now.  So  you  see,  my  poor 
Baptiste,  you  have  got  an  ugly  old  wife." 

"  He  was  a  fool,"  stoutly  said  Baptiste,  "  and  you — you — 
I  had  almost  said  you  are  not  much  wiser ;  but  that  would  not 
be  civil,  nor  yet  would  it  be  my  meaning.  Glance  in  that 
looking-glass,  or  rather  ask  Madame  if  you  are  old  and  ugly. 
Bah  !  you  are  prettier  than  ever." 

"  I  really  think  she  is,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  "  I  really 
do." 

"  I  hope,  at  least,  I  am  wiser  than  I  was  seven  years  ago," 
demurely  said  Fanny,  "  that  I  will  make  Baptiste  a  better 
wife  than  I  might  have  made  him  tiien." 

"  Not  a  bit, — not  a  bit,"  said  Baptiste,  nettled,  "  you  are 
the  same  flighty  creature  "you  were,  and  you  will  plague  my 
life  out — I  know  you  will.  But  I  may  blame  myself  I 
like  you  as  you  are,  and  foolish,  flighty,  giddy  bird  as  you  are, 
I  am  glad  to  have  you." 

"  They  must  want  to  be  alone,"  thought  Madame  la  Roche, 
"  it  is  natural,  on  their  wedding  day, — they  must  have  many 
new  thoughts  and  feelings  to  impart  to  each  other.  I  am 
afraid  I  cannot  go  out  and  leave  them  ;  but  why  should  they 
not  go  out  and  leave  me  ?  " 

She  accordingly  proposed  that  Baptiste  should  take  Fanny 
out,  but  neither  Baptiste  nor  his  bride  appeared  to  have  the 
new  thoughts  and  feelings  Madame  la  Roche  had  apprehended. 

"  They  knew  each  other  by  heart,"  Fanny  said,  "  and  had 
nothing  to  learn  from  solitude." 

"  But  you  miglit  like  being  alone,"  persisted  Madame  la 
Roche.     "  It  seems  natural,  though,  to  be  sure,  I  cannot  re- 


SEVEN   YEAES.  189 

member  I  had  anything  very  particular  to  say  to  Monsieur  la 
Eoche  the  day  we  were  married." 

"  Madame,"  said  Baptistc,  simply  and  gravely,  "  we  have 
married,  and  been  glad  to  marry,  but  it  was  not  to  run  away 
from  you,  or  feel  you  in  the  way  of  our  new  happiness, — God 
forbid.  Whilst  you  live,  Fanny  shall  stay  with  you  like  a 
good  daughter,  and  may  you  live  long  !  I  am  quite  happy  to 
have  her  so." 

Madame  la  Roche  shed  a  quiet  tear,  but  did  not  remon- 
strate, whilst  Charles,  whose  lengthened  face  betrayed  his  ap- 
prehensions that  Baptiste  was  going  to  take  Fanny  away 
altogether,  brightened  considerably  on  hearing  she  was  to  stay. 

Tills  was  their  wedding  day,  and  their  wedding  life. 

The  winter  passed  in  peace,  happiness,  and  comfort 
Baptiste  managed  so  that  Madame  la  Roche's  accession  of  in- 
come went  to  pay  Charles's  superior  schooling.  Baptiste  con- 
fessed he  was  ambitious  for  the  child.  "  If  he  is  to  take  the 
name  of  Watt,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  him  to  be  an  honour  to  it  : 
and  if  he  is  not,  I  wish  to  do  for  him  at  least  what  his  grand- 
mother did  for  Fanny  my  wife." 

As  usual,  Madame  la  Roche  remonstrated,  then  yielded. 
She  yielded  likewise  when,  warmth  and  summer  having  re- 
turned, Baptiste  insisted  that  she,  Fanny,  and  Charles  should 
go  once  more  to  that  pretty  little  home  in  the  country  which 
he  had  made  for  them  the  year  before. 

"  It  will  be  the  last  summer  that  I  shall  trouble  Baptiste 
so,"  she  said  to  Fanny;  ''next  year  I  shall  be  with  Charlotte 
and  Marie,  and  you  will  be  with  your  husljand." 

"  Madame, — Madame, — 1  do  not  believe  in  your  pre- 
sentiments," gaily  said  Fanuy. 

"My  dear,"  said  Madame  la  Roche,  with  mild  surprise, 
"  have  you  forgotten  that  you,  too,  have  acquired  the  factdty 
by  living  with  me  ?  Have  you  forgotten  your  remarkable 
presentiment  about  Monsieur  Noiret's  death '?  " 

Fanny  did  not  venture  to  contradict  this  inference.  She 
had  done  so  once  before,  and  Madame  la  Roche  had  remained 
rather  sore  at  the  imputati<jn  on  her  accuracy  and  memory. 

We  need  not  write  the  story  of  that  summer,  it  had  none. 
We  need  but  relate  what  happened  on  a  Sunday  evening  in 
early  September. 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening  and  mild. 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  sit  out,"  said  Madame  la  Roche. 

Baptiste  led  her  out  into  the  little  garden,  and  helped  her 
to  recline  in  the  deep  arm-chair,  whicli   her  increasing  weak- 


190  SEVEN   TEARS. 

ness  required  even  there.  He  placed  her  within  view  of  the 
calm  Llue  and  yellow  sky,  and  of  the  low  circle  of  hills  that 
met  it.  The  flowers  were  breathing  forth  all  their  fragrance  ; 
the  air  came  perfumed  from  the  surrounding  gardens,  yet  Mad 
ame  la  Roche  looked  around  her  with  mild  apathy.  Toe 
languid  to  take  pleasure  in  what  she  saw,  she  enjoyed  it 
dreamily. 

•'  This  is  almost  as  beautiful  as  Flanders,"  thoughtfully 
said  Baptiste. 

"  Almost !  "  echoed  Fanny. 

"  Yes,  almost,  Madame  Watt,  for,  let  me  tell  you,  there  is 
no  place  like  Flanders,  whatever  you  may  think." 
"  Is  not  Flanders  flat  ?  "  asked  Madame  la  Roche. 
"  Very  flat,  Madame,  and  that  is  why  it  is  so  beautiful ! " 
"  Indeed  !  "  she  mildly  rejoined. 

Fanny  had  gathered  a  few  flowers.  She  now  put  them  on 
Madame  la  Roche's  lap,  who  smiled  at  her,  but  scarcely  looked 
at  them. 

"  Here  is  your  favourite  flower,  the  rose,"  said  Fanny. 
"  Thank   you  ;    all   flowers   are  beautiful,  but  I    have  no 
favourites  now  ;  the  world  is  fading  away  from  before  me,  and 
I  am  leaving  it  a  little  more  every  day,  and  all  its  beauty,  too, 
Fanny." 

"  Do  you  feel  unwell  ?  "  uneasily  asked  Fanny. 
'•No,  child,  I  feel  very  well.   Will  you  go  and  fetch  me  my 
handkerchief,  if  you  please  "?  " 

Fanny  went ;  as  soon  as  her  back  was  turned,  Madame  la 
Roche  laid  her  hand  on  Baptiste's  arm,  and  looking  up  at 
him,  she  said  : 

"Baptiste,  you  have  been  a  son  to  me,  and  a  mothei^'s 
blessing  be  upon  you.  Your  trial  will  soon  be  over.  I  am 
going  away  ;  do  not  look  so  uneasy,  it  is  a  great  blessing  to 
you  and  to  me.  My  life  has  been  a  long  useless  life  ;  but  it 
might  be  longer  than  it  is.  I  might  live  on  and  be  a  per- 
petual bar  between  Fauny  and  you,  for  she  will  not  leave  me, 
and  I  am  too  old  and  too  troublesome  to  be  with  you.  I  am 
thankful,  therefore,  to  go  and  let  you  be  together,  and  I  say 
all  this  I  scarcely  know  why ;  perhaps  because  it  relieves  me 
— perhaps  because  I  fear  1  might,  if  I  waited  too  long,  not 
say  it  at  all." 

Before  Baptiste  had  time  to  reply,  Fanny  came  up  with 
the  handkerchief     She  read  at  once  the  disturbed  meaning  ol 
her  husband's  face,  and  said  quickly  : 
"  Is  Madame  unwell  ?  " 


SEVEN    YKAKS.  191 

"  No,  child ;  but  I  was  telling  Baptiste  what  a  long  useless 
iife  mine  Las  been,  and  I  say  so  to  you  as  well  as  to  him. 
Thank  God,  child,  that  when  you  are  my  age  you  can  look 
back  on  your  youth,  and  find  more  there  than  old  Madame 
la  Roche  in  hers." 

"  Ah,  Madame ! "  said  Fanny,  looking  pained,  "  you 
grieve  us  by  speaking  so.  Why  will  you  hold  yourself  such  a 
sinner  ?  " 

"  A  lamb  !  "  said  Baptiste,  "  a  meek,  innocent  lamb." 

Madame  la  Roche  looked  at  the  sinking  sun,  and  the  plain 
that  spread  a  field  of  gold  to  the  base  of  bluish  hills. 

"  I  dare  say  it  is  all  beautiful,"  she  said,  after  a  long  gaze ; 
"  but  I  do  not  seem  to  see  it ;  I  only  see  days  spent  with 
nands  folded  on  my  lap,  and  idleness  in  my  heart  and  brain." 

She  said  no  more  :  when  the  sun  had  set,  aud  the  last  red 
glow  had  departed  from  the  sky,  Madame  la  Roche  rose  and 
reeotered  the  house.  She  grew  more  feeble  from  that  day,  and 
when  autumn  opened  she  died.  Gentle  and  unrepining,  she  de- 
parted from  life  with  a  smile  on  her  lips;  with  uoub  but  good 
and  holy  thoughts  in  her  heart.  Almost  her  last  words  were 
a  blessing  to  Fanny  and  Baptiste,  a  prayer  to  (Jharles  to  obey 
his  adopttd  parents. 

She  died  in  the  qiriet  village  where  Baptiste's  filial  care 
had  given  her  such  happy  days  ;  but  though  the  village  church- 
yard was  a  beautiful  aud  shady  place,  Bajjtiste  would  not  let 
her  sleejj  there. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  expense  aud  trouble  are  nothing — 
Madame  la  Roche  shall  be  with  her  two  faithful  old  servants 
at  her  feet,  like  a  lady  :  besides,  they  were  with  her  in  life, 
why  should  they  be  divided  from  her  in  death  ?  " 

As  Baptiste  said,  so  was  it  done.  VVheu  he  returned  from 
the  funeral  with  poor  little  Charles,  whose  eyes  were  red  with 
weeping,  and  whose  heart  was  very  heavy  with  grief,  he  took 
him  to  his  upholsterer's  shop,  where  Fanny,  now  for  the  first 
time  in  her  husband's  home,  was  waiting  for  them. 

"  Monsieur  Charles,"  he  said  to  him,  "  this  is  the  place  we 
live  in  ;  in  many  respects  it  would  not  be  suited  to  you,  aud 
therefore  I  have  resolved  to  put  you  in  a  boarding-school, 
where  you  will  be  properly  educated.  You  can  come  and  see 
us  every  Sunday,  aud  if  you  will  hold  me  as  your  father,  and 
Fanny  as  your  mother,  you  will  make  us  happy." 

"I  will,  I  will,"  cried  Charles,  sobbing.  "  I  will  be  called 
Watt." 

"  Later,  not  now,"  inflexibly  said  Baptiste,  "  you  must  re- 


192  SEVEN    YEARS. 

pent  nothing;  but  1  may  say  it  without  boasting,  Watt  is  an 
honest  name  no  one  need  be  asliamed  of.  Well,  Charles,  I 
have  not  much  more  to  say :  in  that  pretty  little  garden  oppo- 
gite  I  saw  Fanny  for  the  first  time,  some  years  ago.  Your 
kind  and  good  gra-iidniother  owned  that  house,  and  was  a  rich 
lady,  but  never  think  of  the  money  that  is  gone,  my  boy  ;  re- 
member her  in  your  prayers,  but  never  think  of  the  money, 
though  it  is  a  useful  and  a  very  excellent  thing.  Think  of 
the  work  you  have  to  do,  and  do  it  bravely,  and  trust  me  for 
that,  money  v/ill  come  too." 

"  I  do  not  want  money, — I  do  not  care  about  it,"  despond- 
ently said  Charles. 

Baptiste  was  going  to  argue  him  out  of  this  dangerous  ro- 
mance, but  Fanny  laid  her  fingers  on  her  husband's  lips,  and 
silenced  him. 

"  It  will  all  come  to  him,"  she  whispered. 

"  Perhaps  it  will,  and  perhaps  it  will  not,"  doubtfully  said 
Baptiste  ;  "  at  his  age  I  knew  what  money  was  and  its  value  ; 
but  have  your  way,  both  of  you." 

The  next  day  Charles,  though  not  without  many  tears, 
went  to  school.  When  Baptiste  came  home  he  found  Fanny 
with  rather  a  sad  face,  but  very  busy  in  the  back  room.  He 
went  up  to  her,  and  laying  hia  hand  on  her  shoulder,  he  said 
fondly : 

"  Well,  my  little  Fanny,  you  are  beginning  housekeeping. 
God  speed  you  ;  but  you  know  what  I  told  you  last  night. 
The  funeral  and  Charles's  schooling  have  taken  away  all  our 
money.  We  must  pinch  and  spare,  as  if  we  were  ever  so 
young  a  couple,  and  just  beginning  business." 

''  Very  well,"  said  Fanny,  cheerfully,  "  we  will  do  it,  and 
be  happier  than  if  we  had  cared  for  ourselves  alone,  and  had 
never  had  to  do  it." 

Baptiste  looked  down  at  his  wife,  and  smiled — a  smile  in 
which  there  was  no  regret  for  the  past,  but  much  of  calm  hap- 
piness in  the  present. 

Dear  have  they  bought  that  happiness,  and  paid  the  full 
price;  may  it  stay  with  them  long,  a  faithful  and  abiding 
guest ! 


SEVEN   YEARS.  193 


THE  CHEAP  EXCUKSION. 

Cheapness!  What  wonflerfullj  clever  things  are  done  and 
thought  of  in  thy  name — what  mighty  sums  saved — what  plea- 
sures realised  !  We  shall  not,  however,  celebrate  thy  praises 
in  an  essay.  The  philosophy  of  clieapness  may  be  best  detailed 
in  a  story — the  story  of  a  terribly  saving  couple  whom  we 
lately  heard  of  in  Paris. 

The  morning  of  the  fete  of  St.  Cloud  shone  bright  and 
beautiful,  and  Monsieur  Krukaine,  who  had  set  himself  on  en- 
joying a  holiday,  was  anxious  to  be  off.  "  I  think,  my  dear, 
it  is  time  to  start,"  said  he  to  his  wife ;  "  as  we  mean  to  walk, 
it  will  be  wise  for  us  to  go  before  the  heat  comes  on." 

"  Well,  Monsieur  Krukaine,"  screamed  a  shrill  voice  from 
an  inner  room,  "  you  may  be  off  if  you  like  ;  but  Alexander's 
face  is  not  washed,  and  my  things  are  not  on  yet,  and  I  shan't 
hurry  either." 

M.  Krukaine  looked  at  his  watch  and  groaned ;  but  he 
knew  by  experience  that  to  endeavour  to  hasten  Madame  Kru- 
kaine's  preparations  would  only  occasion  further  delay :  so  after 
ascertaining  once  more  that  it  was  really  a  tine  day,  he  glanced 
over  the  newspaper  with  as  much  composure  as  he  could  preserve. 

This  was  a  great  day  in  the  life  of  the  Krukaines.  who  had 
long  looked  forward  to  it  with  keen  anticipations  of  the  pleasure 
it  was  to  afford  them.  St.  Cloud  is  a  pretty  village  on  the 
banks  of  the  Seine,  at  a  short  distance  from  Paris.  It  pos- 
sesses a  palace  and  very  handsome  gardens,  which  on  the  fete 
day  of  the  patron  saint  of  the  place  are  thronged  with  visitors, 
and  offer  a  very  gay  appearance.  The  Krukaines  were  retired 
grocers  in  comfortable  circumstances  ;  their  elder  children  were 
settled  in  the  world,  but  the  youngest,  Alexander  Krukaine,  a 
boy  about  nine  years  of  age,  still  remained  with  his  parents, 
who  resided  in  the  Rue  de  1' Arbresec,  near  the  Place  Dauphine. 
As  the  heavy  cares  of  life  were  over  for  them,  ]\I.  and  Madame 
Krukaine  might  have  been  considered  very  happy  people,  but 
for  the  unlucky  parsimony  of  their  habits.  Nothing,  literally, 
seemed  so  difficult  to  M.  Krukaine,  as  to  spend  a  few  IVcUics 
for  any  purpose  not  strictly  indispensable.  To  save  money 
was  his  first  consideration  in  everything;  and  his  contriv 
9 


V)4:  SEVEN    YKAKS. 

ances  to  get  cheap  bargains,  and  conduct  matters  on  all  oc 
casions  cheaply,  were  most  exemplary.  Unfortunately,  his 
cheap  often  turned  out  dear  purchases,  when  all  the  cost  was 
counted  ;  hut  better  luck  was  hoped  for  next  time  ;  and  failure 
accordingly  only  led  to  new  experiments.  Madame  had  not 
originally  been  a  votary  of  cheapness ;  but  from  living  in  an 
atmosphere  of  economical  devices,  she  at  length  rivalled  her 
husband  in  saving,  and  after  that  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  say  who  was  the  cleverest  in  scenting  out  a  bargain,  or  in 
contriving  means  for  holding  in  money.  In  carrying  out  their 
projects,  they  stoically  deprived  themselves  of  the  most  innocent 
pleasures,  lest  they  should  cause  any  expense.  They  declared 
that  their  means  would  not  allow  them  to  see  company.  As 
every  one  knew  this  to  be  false,  the  Krukaines  were  soon  called 
selfish,  avaricious  people  ;  but  to  this  they  remained  perfectly 
indifferent ;  M.  Krukaine,  who  piqued  himself  on  being  a  phi- 
losopher, remarking  that  as  calumny  was  the  usual  reward  of 
merit,  they  had  no  right  to  be  surprised  at  the  treatment  they 
experienced  from  their  neighbours.  If  the  truth  must  be  told, 
they  were  rather  glad,  than  otherwise,  at  the  turn  which  re- 
ports took  against  them.  They  had  the  pleasure  of  thinking 
they  were  unjustly  persecuted,  and  this  pleasure  they  had  the 
satisfaction  of  enjoying  without  cost:  it  was  a  cheap  way  of 
getting  amusement.  \ 

Such  being  their  disposition,  it  was  not  without  mature 
deliberation  that  the  Krukaines  had  decided  on  going  to  the 
fete  of  St.  Cloud ;  but  the  beauty  of  the  weather  rendered  the 
temptation  irresistible  ;  besides  they  determined  to  spend  so 
very  little,  that  it  would  be  scarcely  worth  mentioning.  A 
circumstance,  which  increased  their  wish  of  seeing  tlie  fiHe  was, 
that  several  lodgers  of  the  house  in  which  they  resided  had 
resolved  to  go  to  it  in  a  party,  and  s})oke  enthusiastically  of 
the  pleasures  they  anticipated  from  the  excursion.  The  Kru- 
kaines had  been  invited  to  join  them,  but  had  churlishly  re- 
fused ;  for  as  M.  Krukaine  prudently  observed,  "  What  was  the 
use  of  going  with  other  jieople  when  you  could  gain  nothing 
by  them?  "  They  accordingly  determined  to  go  alone.  Mad- 
ame Brenu,  a  sarcastic  widow,  who  lived  on  the  same  land- 
ing with  them,  and  who  was  to  be  one  of  the  pic-nic  party,  did 
indeed  make  some  malicious  and  spiteful  remarks  about  stingy 
and  unsociable  people ;  but  as  Madame  Krukaine  loftily  ob- 
sei  ved,  in  emulation  of  her  husband's  philosophy,  "  She  was 
abovt;  such  things,  and  should  treat  the  woman's  impertinence 
with  the  calm  contempt  it  merited." 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  195 

Though  M.  Krukaine,  after  waiting  a  very  long  time, 
ended  by  thinking  Madame  would  never  be  dressed,  she  was 
ready  at  last,  and  appeared  in  the  full  glory  of  a  bright  yellow 
bonnet  and  brick-red  shawl  ;  which,  though  somewhat  out  of 
dace,  were  still  as  good  as  new.  On  her  left  arm  she  carried  a 
large  and  heavy  basket,  well  stored  with  provisions  for  the  day  ; 
and  in  her  right  hand  she  brandished  an  old  blue  parasol,  Avith 
which  she  rather  viciously  poked  Alexander  Krukaine,  a  dull 
sleepy-looking  boy,  who  bore  the  infliction,  and  the  "go  on" 
that  accompanied  it,  with  an  irritating,  don't  care,  dogged  sort 
of  look. 

"Well,  Monsieur  Krukaine,  do  you  mean  to  stay  here  all 
'day  ?  "  asked  Madame,  turning  on  her  husband. 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Monsieur  Krukaine,  whistling 
and  walking  down-stairs,  whilst  Alexander  obeyed  another 
poke,  and  another  "go  on,"  and  followed  his  father. 

The. said  father  needs  no  particular  description.  He  was  a 
thick  common-place  looking  man,  possessed  of  a  tolerable  share 
of  good  nature ;  but  long  habit  had  enabled  him  to  lay  this 
superfluous  quality  under  such  remarkable  control,  that  few 
persons  could  have  suspected  its  existence.  A  thoroughly  good- 
humoured  temper  alone  betrayed  to  the  penetrating  eye  of  keen 
observers  the  genial  light  which  Monsieur  Krukaine  so  care- 
fully hid  beneath  the  bushel  of  worldly  prudence. 

Softly  and  tenderly  did  Madame  Krukaine  close  the  door 
of  her  apartment ;  slyly  and  triumphantly  did  she  slip  the 
key  in  her  pocket,  and  why,  forsooth  !  oh,  weakness  of  great 
minds  !  lest  Widow  Brenu  should  hear  her !  We  cannot  deny 
it ;  Madame  Krukaine,  who  was  afraid  of  no  one,  dreaded  with 
mortal  fear  the  piercing  eye,  the  ready  ear,  the  pitiless  tongue 
of  Widow  Brenu ;  and  fate  had,  with  perverse  ingenuity, 
brought  this  enemy  to  the  very  threshold  of  the  Krukaiues,  by 
lodging  her  in  the  same  house,  and  on  the  same  second-floor 
landing.  "  This  time  she  did  not  hear  me,"  thought  Madame 
Krukaine,  exultingly.  Her  foot  was  on  the  first  step  of  the 
staircase,  in  the  act  of  going  down,  wlien  Monsieur  Krukaine, 
who  felt  in  a  most  unphilosophical  hurry  to  be  off,  shouted  from 
the  foot  of  the  staircase  : 

"Madame  Krukaine.  are  you  coming  or  nott" 

Madame  Brenu  was  in  the  act  of  soaping  her  merry  round 
face,  when  she  heard  Monsieur  Krukaine"s  voice.  At  once  she 
flew  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  beaming  witli  mischievous 
glee,  she  confronted  Madame  Krukaine,  who  eyed  her  coldly 
and  sternly. 


196  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Madame  Brenu. 

"  Good  morning,"  loftily  replied  Madame  Krukaine ;  "  I 
hope  you  are  quite  well  ?  " 

"  Ob,  quite ;  dressing  to  go  to  St.  Cloud.  Are  you  really 
going  too'?" 

"  We  are." 

"  You  will  find  it  expensive,"  said  Madame  Brenu,  shrewd- 
ly, "  dreadfully  expensive." 

"  That  is  our  own  business,"  frigidly  said  Madame  Krukaine, 
and  she  was  going  down  stairs,  when  Madame  Brenu,  who  was 
a  dreadful  woman,  precisely  because  she  always  did  what  she 
pleased,  laid  her  fat  hand  on  the  basket  and  unceremoniously 
lifted  up  the  lid.  The  leg  of  a  fowl  caught  her  quick  eye. 
"  Capon  !  "  she  cried,  amazed,  •'  cold  capon  !  Madame  Kru- 
kaine, how  did  you  make  up  your  heart  ?  " 

"Madame  Krukaine,  are  you  coming?"  again  shouted 
Monsieur  Krukaine  from  below. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Krukaine,  I  am  coming,"  replied  Madame, 
in  great  wrath,  and  bending  over  the  banisters  to  reply,  "  and 
you  will  very  much  oblige  me  by  coming  and  fetching  your 
basket.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  it  is  not  for  my  own  consump- 
tion I  provided  its  contents,  and  if  you  tulll  eat,  I  think  you 
may  work." 

Monsieur  Krukaine  was  at  first  confounded  at  this  extraor- 
dinary address,  but  he  soon  came  to  the  right  conclusion. 
"  Madame  Brenu  has  been  at  her,"  he  thought,  and  he  went  up. 

He  found  the  two  ladies  engaged  in  keen  though  polite 
battle. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Madame,"  said  Madame 
Krukaine,  drawing  her  thin  lips  tight,  "  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you." 

"  Do  not  mention  it,"  good-humouredly  replied  Madame 
Brenu,  "  I  hope  you  may  enjoy  yourselves.  We  shall.  Mon- 
sieur Theodore,  the  lawyer's  clerk,  brings  his  flute,  and  Mon- 
sieur Ledru  his  guitar,  then  we  each  take  something  to  eat  with 
us.  I  have  a  fine  melon  and — but  dear  me,  Monsieur  Krukaine, 
how  did  you  make  up  your  mind  to  buy  a  capon  ? — A  pdte, 
too !      I  assure  you  no  one  will  believe  it." 

Monsieur  Krukaine  winked  his  right  eye  at  Madame  Brenu, 
and  smacking  his  lips  emphatically,  replied  : 

'••  Madame,  we  shall  believe  it  when  the  time  comes." 

Madame  Brenu  looked  but  half  convinced,  and  did  not 
seem  able  to  make  np  her  mind  to  believe  in  the  capon,  but, 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  197 

dropping  that  part  of  the  subject,  she  gave  her  neighbour  a 
rueful  look,  and  pursued : 

"  And  you  will  actually  carry  that  heavy  basket  all  the 
way  to  St.  Cloud !  well  Monsieur  Krukaine  1  admire  you.  We 
have  hired  a  char-a-banc  to  take  us  there  and  back,  but  Mad- 
ame Krukaine  would  not  go  in  a  char-a-banc  ;  too  proud, 
ehr' 

Madame  Krukaine  would  have  returned  a  wrathful  reply, 
but  her  husband,  who  did  not  care  a  rush  for  Madame  Brenu's 
talk  (all  wind,  he  wisely  observed),  only  winked  his  right  eye 
the  harder,  and  tapping  his  nose,  said  shrewdly : 

"  There's  a  bottle  of  Bordeaux  with  the  capon,  Madame 
Brenu,  a  bottle  of  Bordeaux." 

And  with  this  they  descended. 

"  That  was  cutting,  eh  '?  "  said  Monsieur  Krukaine  to  his 
wife. 

"Very  cutting,  indeed,"  ironically  replied  Madame  Kru- 
kaine, as  the  voice  of  Madame  Brenu  was  heard  proclaiming  to 
the  whole  house  :  "  Do  you  know  the  news  ?  The  Krukaines 
are  going  to  St.  Cloud,  and  they  are  taking  a  cold  capon,  and 
a  bottle  of  Bordeaux.  I  saw  the  leg  of  the  fowl,  but  I  do  not 
believe  in  it." 

"  All  wind,  all  talk,"  philosophically  said  Monsieur  Kru- 
kaine, and  to  show  his  contempt  for  it,  he  began  whistling. 

The  day  wa  line,  but  it  was  warm  too.  Monsieur  Kru- 
kaine, who  carried  the  basket,  was  soon  in  a  profuse  heat. 
He  had  not  walked  ten  minutes  when  he  paused,  and  observed 
gravely  : 

"  My  dear,  I  think  we  shall  be  very  much  flitigued  by  the 
time  we  reach  St.  Cloud.     Had  we  not  better  ride  there  1  " 

"  Ride,  indeed  !  "  echoed  Madame,  with  some  asperity, 
"  and  how  1  " 

"  Perhaps  this  countryman,  who  seems  to  be  going  our 
way,  might  give  us  a  lift,"  shrewdly  replied  Monsieur  Kru- 
kaine, winking  at  a  large  cart,  covered  with  white  canvas,  and 
drawn  by  a  stout  white  horse,  standing  at  the  corner  of  a 
street,  and  which  evidently  belonged  to  a  queer-looking  brown- 
visagecl  countryman  in  a  blue  smock  frock,  who  stood  smok- 
hig  his  pipe  at  the  door  of  a  wine-shop. 

"  I  do  not  much  like  the  look  of  that  cart,"  said  Madame 
Krukaine. 

"  Never  mind  the  look,  my  dear,"  eagerly  replied  her  hus- 
band ;  "  countrymen  are  soft ;  and  think  of  the  pleasure  of 
riding  for  next  to  nothing  !  " 


198  SEVEN   TEAES. 

He  went  up  to  the  soft  countryman,  and  made  the  pro. 
posal ;  it  was  favourably  received,  and  in  the  short  space  of 
half  an  hour  the  bargain  was  struck.  For  a  very  small  sum, 
which  by  dint  of  haggling  Madame  Krukaine  reduced  to  a 
very  trifling  one,  the  countryman  agreed  to  take  them  to  St. 
Cloud.  The  whole  family  accordingly  got  up,  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Krukaine  exchanging  looks  of  congratulation  on  their 
excellent  bargain. 

But  there  is  a  shady  side  to  everything  in  this  world,  and 
it  so  happened  that  the  cart,  which  was  well  laden  with  sacks 
of  corn,  went  rather  more  slowly  than  the  Krukaines  could 
have  walked. 

"We  shall  never  get  there,"  said  Madame. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  soothingly  observed  Monsieur  Kru- 
kaine to  the  countryman,  "  you  have  a  good  strong  whij) ; 
could  you  not  urge  your  horse  a  little  1  " 

The  countryman  took  out  his  pipe,  and  stared  in  profound 
amazement  at  Monsieur  Krukaine. 

"  That  horse  has  never  been  whipped  in  his  life,"  he  said 
at  length,  "  and  my  opinion  is  that  if  I  were  to  touch  him  he 
would  stand  stock  still.  But  if  you  want  him  to  go  faster  it 
is  easily  done." 

The  countryman  made  a  peculiar  noise  with  his  tongue, 
and  away  flew  the  white  horse  at  a  gallop.  The  cart  was  not 
on  springs,  and  the  road  was  stony  ;  within  five  minutes 
Madame  Krukaine  was  reduced  to  the  verge  of  apoplexy, 
^lonsieur  Krukaine  shouted  in  the  countryman's  ear,  and  shook 
and  pulled  him,  but  the  countryman  only  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, as  much  as  to  say  :  "  What  can  1  do?  "  Upon  which 
Monsieur  Krukaine,  being  reduced  to  actual  desperation,  and 
suddenly  remembering  the  eflect  the  whip  was  to  produce, 
seized  it,  and  plied  it  vigorously  around  the  horse's  legs  ;  but 
strange  to  say,  the  white  horse,  on  being  whipped  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  instead  of  standing  stock  still,  whisked  his  tail, 
kicked  up  his  heels,  and  galloped  all  the  fiister,  never  stopping 
indeed,  until  he  felt  tired,  and  the  Krukaines  were  fairly  black 
in  the  face. 

"  I  think  we  shall  get  down,"  said  Monsieur  Krukaine,  as 
soon  as  he  had  breath  enough  to  speak. 

Madame,  who  was  wholly  exhausted,  assented  faintly,  but 
though  the  countryman  raised  no  sort  of  objection  to  their 
alighting,  he  did  raise  so  very  great  an  objection  to  their  goirig 
away  without  paying  him  the  amount  agreed  on,  that  the 
Krukaines,  unable  to  find  it  in  their  hearts  to  pay  for  a  ride 


SEVEN    TEARS.  199 

and  go  on  foot,  sulkily  adhered  to  the  original  plan  and 
bargain. 

"  But  I  beg,  sir,"  said  Madame  Krukaine,  with  great  as- 
perity, as  she  resumed  her  seat,  "  I  beg,  sir,  that  you  will 
leave  off  that  horrid  smoking." 

"  I  should  be  most  happy  to  oblige  a  Parisian  lady,"  said 
the  soft  countryman,  gravely,  "  but  if  I  do  not  smoke  my 
horse  will  not  go,  and  when  I  do  not  want  him  to  go,  and  yet 
wish  to  smoke,  I  must  get  down.  And  that  is  how  and  why 
you  found  me  at  the  door  of  the  wine-shop  this  morning." 

This  out]-ageous  story  was  received  by  the  Krukaines  with 
ili-disguised  scorn  ;  but  they  prudently  remembered  that  they 
were  in  the  countryman's  cart,  and  ventured  on  no  open  sign 
of  incredulity.  Slowly  and  lazily  they  crept  at  true  snail's 
pace  along  the  hot  sunny  road,  when  a  sound  of  light  spring- 
ing wheels,  with  which  lilended  the  murmur  of  a  flute  and  the 
tinkling  of  a  guitar,  was  heard  behind.  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Krukaine  exchanged  conscious  looks,  and  Madame  drew  back, 
but  hc'r  yellow  bonnet  was  too  conspicuous,  and  rapidly  as 
the  char-a-banc  flew  past,  Widow  Brenu  saw  and  recognised 
them.  With  a  loud  and  sarcastic  laugh  she  rose  from  her 
seat,  and  with  out-stretched  finger  she  pointed  them  out  to  the 
whole  party,  who  raised  an  ironical  cheer,  as  the  light  vehicle 
passed  by,  bequeathing  a  thick  cloud  of  dust  to  the  slow  jolt- 
ing cart. 

"  A  cart  is  just  as  good  as  a  char-a-banc,"  philosophically 
obsei'ved  Monsieur  Krukaine. 

"  I  prefer  a  cart,"  said  Madame ;  "  a  char-a-banc  is  so 
vulgar." 

The  countryman  winked  at  them,  and  emphatically  uttered 
the  word : 

"  Economical  !  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  INIonsieur  Krukaine  to  his  wife,  "  what 
is  there  in  that  basket  ?  " 

"  A  cold  roast  capon,  a  salad,  a  pate,  a  tart,  and  a  bottle 
of  Bordeaux,"  replied  Madame. 

Having  thus  convinced  the  countryman  that,  though  they 
rode  in  a  cart,  they  were  people  of  substance,  the  Krukaines 
did  not  open  their  lips  until  St.  Cloud  was  reached,  when,  to 
their  infinite  comfort,  they  alighted. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  the  countryman,  with  a  knowing 
look,  "  a  cheap  ride,  eh  ?  "  The  Krukaines  did  not  deign  him 
a  I'eply,  but  walked  away  with  silent  scorn. 

They  had  come  so  slowly  along,  that  it  was  now  about 


200  SEVEN    YEARS. 

twelve,  and  the  Krukaines  soon  discovered  that  they  wert 
hungry.  Their  first  care,  therefore,  was  to  select  a  convenient 
spot  where  they  might  take  a  slight  repast.  They  were  quar- 
relling on  the  subject — for  Madame  Krukaine  wanted  to  re- 
main within  sight  of  the  fete,  and  her  husband  as  energetically 
remonstrated  against  this  course — when  the  good  lady  sud- 
denly gave  a  shriek  of  horror,  and  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  the 
deepest  dismay,  "  the  l)asket !  " 

M.  Krukaine  turned  hastily  round,  filled  with  prophetic 
dread ;  the  basket,  wliieh  shoidd  have  been  on  his  wife's  arm, 
was  gone. 

"  In  the  cart !  "  screamed  Madame ;  "  you  left  it  in  the 
cart." 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  it  would  l^e  more  correct  to  say  you 
left  it.     What  had  I  to  do  with  the  basket  1  " 

"  I  say  you  left  it,  Monsieur  Krukaine  :  had  I  not  Alex- 
ander to  mind  ?  You  ought  to  be  asliaiiied  of  yourself — a  new 
basket  I  bouglit  only  the  other  day,  besides  a  cold  roast  capon, 
a  salad,  a  pate,  a  tart,  a  brittle  of  wine,  a  porcelain  dish,  and 
a  damask  cloth.  Well,  I  do  compliment  you  on  your  day's 
work.     Oh,  you  may  sneer  av/ay  !  " 

M.  Krukraine  here  suggested  that  the  cart  might  not  be 
gone  yet,  and  he  accordingly  ran  back  to  the  spot  where  they 
had  alighted  ;  but  vain  hope  !  no  trace  of  it  remained — cart, 
basket,  cold  capon,  wine,  pate,  salad,  and  tart,  all  had  van- 
ished. This  was  the  more  provoking,  that  it  was  very  rarely 
the  Krukaines  ventured  to  indulge  in  such  luxurious  fare  as 
they  had  promised  themselves  for  that  day,  M.  Krukaine's 
hunger  silenced  his  philosophy  for  a  while,  and  he  slowly 
returned  to  the  spot  where  he  had  left  his  wife  in  a  very  bitter 
mood,  which  the  thought  of  the  capon  on  which  the  country 
man  was  going  to  feast  rendered  particularly  desponding. 

"  W^ell,  sir,"  triumphantly  exclaimed  Madame  Krukaine, 
"  where  is  the  basket  ? — your  basket,  sir  !  " 

"  It  is  useless  to  talk  of  it  now,  my  dear  ;  the  question  is, 
What  shall  we  eat  ?  " 

"  You  may  eat  what  you  like.  Monsieur  Krukaine ;  but 
surely  you  cannot  be  very  hungry,  or  you  would  not  have 
loft  your  l)asket  behind  you." 

Without  heeding  this  taunt,  M.  Krukaine  immediately  pro- 
ceeded to  a  restaurateur's,  where,  on  paynig  an  extravagant 
price,  he  procured  some  cold  meat,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  a  bottle 
Df  wine.  With  these  provisions  the  family  made  a  very 
indifferent  meal,  the  relish  it  might  otherwise  have  afforded 


SEVEN    YEAKS.  201 

them   being   destroyed   by  the  consciousness   of   tneir  loss. 
When  the  repast  was  over — and,  as  Madame  Krukaine  bitterly 
observed,  it  did   not  hist  h)ng — M.  Krukaine  proposed  that 
they  should  take  a  walk  ;   his  wife  sullenly  consented ;  and 
they  accordingly  went  over  the  gardens,  looked  at  the  fete, 
and  endeavoured  to  admire  the  fine  prospects  around  thrm. 
But  it  was  in  vain  they  sought  to  be  amused ;  disappointment 
and  vexation  damped  their  joy,  and  a  cloud  even  came  over 
M.  Krukaine's  philosophic  spirit  every  time  he  thought  of  the 
cold  capon.     As  though  to  increase  their  annoyance,  it  so  hap- 
pened that,  in  going  through  one  of  the  pleasant  woods  near 
the  gardens,  they  came  to  a  grassy  spot  which  had  been  chosen 
by  the  pic-nic  party  for  their  resting-place.     A  large  table- 
cloth had  been  spread  on  the  grass  ;  the  meal  was  laid  out 
upon  it,  and,  though  a  somewhat  heterogeneous  one,  it  looked 
sufficiently  tempting  to  awaken  keen  feelings  of  regret  and 
envy  in  the  Krukaines.     It  was  also  remarkably  aggravating 
to  see  in  what  good  spirits  the  whole  party  seemed  to  be. 
M.  Theodore's  flute  and  M.  Ledru's  guitar  were  giving  forth 
sweet  sounds  for  the  amusement  of  the  company,  and  to  the 
great  delight  of  a  few  children  who  were  amongst  the  pic-nic 
party,  and  danced  on  the  grass  with  a  glee  which  showed  their 
entire   satisfaction.     This   sight   produced   a   great  effect   on 
Alexander  Krukaine's  feelings,  which  had  hitherto  been  in  a 
dormant  state ;  he  perceived  at  a  glance  the  enjoyments  of 
which  he  had  been  deprived,  and  insisted  on  joining  the  party 
forthwith.     His  parents  peremptorily  refused ;    and  as  they 
had  fortunately  escaped  Madame  Brenu's  eye,  they  hastened 
to    leave   the   spot  whilst    still    unseen.     Alexander  felt  ag- 
grieved ;  this  feeling  increased  when  Madame  Krukaine  posi- 
tively forbade  him  to  go  near  the  stalls,  temptingly  covered 
with  toys  and  sweets  ;   and  snappishly  declared  that  too  much 
money  had  already  been  thrown  away  on  that  day  for  her  to 
think  of  squandering  any  more  by  the  most  trifling  purchase. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  stubbornness  in  Alexander  Krukaine's 
disposition ;    he  was,  moreover,  accustomed  to  great  indulg- 
ence, and  on  the  present  occasion  he  thought  himself  extremely 
ill-used.     To  show  a  proper  sense  of  his  wrongs,  he  spared  no 
pains  to  render  both  himself  and  his  parents  thoroughly  un- 
comfortable.    This    was    easily    effected.      Whenever    they 
wanted  to  rest,  he  insisted  on  going  on  ;  and  when,  on  the 
contrary,  they  wished  to  walk,  he  declared  himself  too  fitigued 
to  proceed.   "Madame  Krukaine  scolded,  M.  Krukaine  remon- 
strated and  threatened  by  turns ;  but  nothing  could  produce 
9* 


202  SEVEN    TEAES. 

the  least  effect  on  Alexander,  who  was  now  roused  to  a  state 
of  dogged  resistance. 

The  Krukaines  were  heartily  glad  when  evening  came 
on.  M.  Krukaine,  who  felt  a  most  unphilosophic  appetite, 
hinted  something  about  having  dinner ;  but  Madame  sharply 
observed  that  they  had  already  dined  ;  and  though  her  husband 
felt  this  to  be  a  most  lamentable  fiction,  he  was  compelled  to 
acquiesce.  The  question  was  now  how  they  were  to  go  home. 
They  endeavoured  to  secure  some  conveyance,  for  fatigue  had 
so  far  conquered  their  feelings  of  avarice,  as  to  make  them 
willing  to  sacrifice  a  few  francs  to  comfort.  But  this  was  the 
hour  when  every  one  was  returning — the  most  insignificant 
vehicle  suddenly  rose  in  importance,  and  extravagant  sums 
were  asked  and  given  for  a  seat. 

"  We  will  walk  home,"  indignantly  exclaimed  Madame 
Krukaine,  on  beholding  this  deplorable  state  of  things ;  and  as 
her  husband  seconded  the  heroic  resolve,  they  set  out  imme- 
diately. The  evening  was  close  and  sultry,  and  before  they 
had  walked  a  quarter  of  a  league,  Alexander  Krukaine,  exas- 
perated by  this  forced  march,  sat  down  by  the  roadside,  and 
expressed  his  solemn  detcrminalion  of  not  going  one  step 
further.  His  parents  walked  on,  pretending  to  leave  him  be- 
hind :  but  Alexander,  who  had  grown  accustomed  to  mis- 
fortunes, remained  insensible  to  this  one,  and  was  fast  asleep 
by  the  time  they  returned  near  him.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
M.  Krukaine  suggested  a  sound  whipping  as  soon  as  they  should 
roach  home.  But  as  this  afforded  no  present  relief,  his  wife 
sharply  bade  him  hold  his  peace,  and  began  a  long  recriminat- 
ing speech,  by  which  she  clearly  proved  that  all  their  sufferings 
originated  in  M.  Krukaine's  loss  of  the  basket.  They  were 
still  in  this  dilemma,  when  a  fiacre  drove  up  to  the  door  of  a 
villa,  near  which  they  were  then  standing.  A  gentleman  came 
out  of  the  house  and  stepped  into  the  coach.  "  Place  Dau- 
phine,"  said  he  to  the  coachman,  who  nodded  and  took  his  seat. 

M.  and  Madame  Krukaine  exchanged  a  rapid  look  of 
intelligence.  Place  Dauphine  was  close  to  their  abode ;  the 
seat  at  the  back  of  the  fiacre  was  wide ;  the  night  was  dark, 
no  one  could  see  them.  In  short,  after  a  very  brief  hesitation, 
they  seized  on  the  slumbering  Alexander,  and  sprang  up 
steathily  on  the  convenient  seat,  whilst  the  unsuspecting  coach- 
man drove  oft'. 

The  Krukaines  actually  chuckled  with  exultation  at  the 
success  of  their  stratagem.  There  was  something  so  truly 
delightful  in  the  idea  of  riding  home  for  nothing  that  it  made 


SEVEN    YEAES.  203 

them  forget  the  miseries  of  the  day.  It  is  true  that  they  were 
rather  uncomfurtably  seated,  and  that  Alexander,  who  seemed 
determined  to  drown  the  remembrance  of  his  woes  in  sleep, 
was  every  minute  in  danger  of  falling  off;  but,  as  M.  Kru- 
kaine  wisely  remarked,  "  What  would  be  the  use  of  philos- 
ophy, if  it  did  not  teach  us  to  bear  patiently  such  trifling 
inconveniences  1 " 

They  accordingly  bore  their  trials  with  exemplary  forti- 
tude, until  they  discovered,  to  their  dismay,  that  it  was  begin- 
ning to  rain,  or,  as  Madame  Krukaine  bitterly  declared,  "  to 
pour."  The  unhappy  lady  opened  her  parasol  in  the  vain  hope 
of  sheltering  her  bonnet ;  but  the  only  consequence  of  this 
arrangement  was  to  transfer  to  it  some  of  the  blue  of  the 
parasol.  She  fortunately  remained  unconscious  of  this  un- 
looked-for result,  and  entertained  herself  by  lamenting  the 
loss  of  her  husband's  basket,  as  she  persisted  in  terming  it.  M. 
Krukaine  was  thoroughly  fatigued  and  hungry.  These  were 
sufficient  evils  even  for  a  sage,  and  he  accordingly  fell  fast 
asleep,  heedless  alike  of  Madame's  scolding  and  of  the  rain 
which  poured  upon  him.  It  was  not  until  the  fiacre  stopped 
that  he  wakened  with  an  alarmed  start ;  but  be  immediately 
recollected  the  necessity  of  silence,  and  alighted  noiselessly. 
His  next  task  was  to  take  down  Alexander,  who  was  still  fast 
asleep,  and  to  rouse  Madame  Krukaine,  who  had  followed  the 
example  of  her  husband  and  son.  These  delicate  proceedings 
were  conducted  with  so  much  discretion,  that  neither  the 
tenant  of  the  fiacre  nor  the  coachman  suspected  what  was 
going  on.  Whilst  there  was  a  chance  of  detection,  the  Kru- 
kaiues  prudently  remained  within  the  deep  shadow  of  one  of 
the  neighbouring  houses ;  but  as  soon  as  the  fiacre  drove  away, 
M.  Krukaine,  who  felt  uncomfortably  cool  about  the  head, 
exclaimed,  "  My  dear,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  give  me  my 
hat?" 

"  Your  hat !  "  indignantly  echoed  his  wife  ;  "  what  have 
I  to  do  with  your  hat,  sir  ?  " 

M.  Krukaine  was  stupefied  by  this  new  misfortune.  Though 
he  had  evidently  lost  his  hat  whilst  sleeping  behind  the  fiacre, 
he  refused  to  believe  in  this  melancholy  truth,  and  repeatedly 
declared  there  must  be  some  mistake,  that  it  could  not  be. 
Mudaiue  Krukaine  listened  to  her  husband's  lamentations 
with  bitter  triumph,  and  sarcastically  asserted  that  she  felt 
delighted  at  what  had  occurred.  This  was  extremely  aggra- 
vating, and  her  spouse  took  it  in  very  ill  part ;  he  and  Mad- 
ame therefore  quarrelled  on  the  subject  until  they  grew  tired 


204r  SEVEN   YEARS. 

of  it ;  after  wliich  they  began  to  think  of  going  home.  Bnl 
though  they  knew  they  ought  to  be  within  a  very  short  dis- 
tance  of  their  dwelling,  they  could  never  succeed  in  finding 
the  turn  which  led  to  it :  they  at  first  ascribed  this  to  the 
darkness  of  the  night. 

"  Most  extraordinary,  to  be  sure  !  "  exclaimed  M.  Kru- 
kaine,  rubbing  his  eyes  to  ascertain  that  it  was  not  in  them  the 
mistake  lay.  "  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  the  name 
of  this  place  ?  "  he  asked  of  a  man  who  happened  to  be  pass- 
ing by.  _ 

"  Place  Dauphine,"  was  the  answer. 

M.  Krukaine  breathed  freely,  and  next  inquired  for  the 
way  leading  to  the  Rue  de  1' Arbresec  ? 

"  I  don't  know  the  street." 

M.  Krukaiue's  doubts  returned.  Perhaps  this  was  not  the 
Place  Diiuphine  ;  but  the  man  reiterated  his  assertion.  Then 
where  was  the  Rue  de  I'Arbresec  ?  The  man  again  declared 
he  did  not  know. 

"  But,  my  friend,"  coaxingly  observed  M.  Krukaine,  "  let 
me  tell  you  it  must  be  very  near  this  spot." 

"  And  let  me  tell  you,"  testily  answered  the  man,  "  there 
does  not  exist  such  a  street  in  all  Versailles." 

"  Versailles !  "  echoed  M.  Krukaine  in  a  hoilow  tone. 

"  Versailles  !  "  screamed  Madame  Krukain-3, 

Alas,  they  were  indeed  in  Versailles,  which  possessed  a 
Place  Dauphine  as  well  as  Paris  !  The  unhappy  couple,  for- 
getting all  their  causes  of  dissent,  looked  on  one  another  in 
mute  despaii'.  Versailles  was  much  farther  from  Paris  than 
St.  Cloud;  the  rain  still  fell  heavily;  a  neighbouring  clock 
struck  twelve ;  in  short,  their  misery  seemed  complete.  M. 
Krukaine,  whose  imagination  seemed  affected  by  the  misfor- 
tunes of  the  day,  scrupled  not  to  declare  that  they  were  per- 
secuted by  an  inexorable  fatality.  One  moment  he  felt 
tempted  to  defy  his  destiny ;  but  on  second  thought,  he  re- 
solved to  delay  doing  this  until  he  should  be  safely  home — an 
event  which,  as  he  bitterly  observed,  did  not  seem  likely 
to  occur  for  some  time  yet.  In  the  mean  while  Madame 
Krukaine,  who,  according  to  her  own  assertion,  had  been  pre- 
pared, since  the  loss  of  her  basket,  for  everything  which  had 
occurred,  learned  from  the  individual  who  had  apprised  them 
of  their  melancholy  situation,  that  they  would  find  a  little  inn  in 
one  of  the  neighbouring  streets,  where  they  might  probably  gain 
admittance  for  the  night.  It  was  not  without  much  difficulty 
that   the  unhappy  Krukaines   succeeded   in  discovering   thia 


SEVEN    YEARS.  205 

place  of  refuge,  and  in  rousing  the  inmates,  who  on  beholding 
their  pitiable  condition,  consented  to  receive  them,  although 
they  wore  unprovided  with  a  passport.  But  even  when  they 
found  themselves  in  a  comfortable  room,  and  to  all  appearance 
safe,  M.  Krukaiiie  remained  sceptical,  and  refused  to  believe 
that  their  misfortunes  were  over. 

"  Don't  think  yourself  safe  yet,  my  dear,"  he  gravely  ob- 
served to  his  wife,  as  they  retired  for  the  night ;  "  we  are  the 
victims  of  fatality." 

M.  Krukaine's  first  act  on  wakening  the  next  morning,  and 
on  ascertainino-  thouo-h  he  declared  himself  astonished  at  such 
an  escape,  that  he  had  not  been  spirited  away  during  the  night, 
was  to  send  for  a  hatter,  in  order  to  replace  the  indispensable 
article  of  wearing  apparel  he  had  unfortunately  lost.  Of 
course  he  was  dreadfully  cheated ;  the  hatter  knew  that  he  lay 
at  his  mercy,  and  made  the  most  of  his  advantage  ;  but  M. 
Krukaine  was  now  prepared  for  anything,  and  he  bore  the  im- 
position with  a  kind  of  desperate  resignation.  Madame  Kru- 
kaine did  not  yield  so  readily  to  the  decrees  of  fate  ;  she  gazed 
with  unutterable  dismay  on  her  bonnet,  to  which  her  parasol, 
through  the  agency  of  the  rain,  had  imparted  a  green  tint ; 
and  like  those  struck  by  some  sudden  calamity,  she  remained 
incredulous,  and  long  refused  to  believe  in  the  reality  of  this 
lamentable  metamorphosis.  When  the  Krukaines  had  break- 
fasted— and  they  now  felt  a  sort  of  recklessness  at  whatever 
expenses  they  might  incur — they  secured  a  vehicle,  of  which 
the  owner  engaged  to  take  them  to  their  own  door  for  what 
M.  Krukaine  termed  an  enormous  sum;  but  this  was  of  little 
consequence,  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  submit  to  all  the 
exigencies  of  destiny  until  he  found  himself  at  his  own  door 
in  Paris.  There  they  arrived  at  length,  after  undergoing,  as 
he  observed  hi  a  melancholy  tone,  a  series  of  unparalleled  mis- 
fortunes. They  had  indeed  the  appearance  of  travellers 
returning  from  a  disastrous  voyage.  Madame  Krukaine's 
features  were  haggard  and  fatigued  ;  Alexander  looked  stu 
pefied  and  dirty ;  and  though  M.  Krukaine  had  suffered  least 
in  outward  appearance,  his  startled  air  plainly  bespoke  the  un- 
happy victim  of  fatality. 

The  tainily  had  no  sooner  alighted  from  their  conveyance, 
than  they  perceived  the  sarcastic  countenance  of  Madame 
Brenu  looking  down  on  them  from  her  window. 

"  Why,"  she  screamed  out,  "  where  have  yDu  been  all  this 
time  ?  we  were  so  uneasy  ;  I  hope  you  enjoyed  yourselves.  We 
had  quite   a  delightful  day  of  it,  I   assure   you ;  dined   in  the 


206  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

wood,  and  came  home  just  in  time  to  escape  the  rain.  I  hope 
you  did  not  get  wet.  But  dear  uie,  what  is  the  matter  with  yout 
bonnet  ?  Green  !  I  declare ;  surely  it  was  yellow  yesterday  ? 
And  where  is  your  basket  ?  Ah  !  empty  of  all  the  good  things 
by  this,  I  dare  say  ?"  And  so  the  provoking  woman  went  on, 
whilst  the  unhappy  Krukaines,  now  resigned  to  anything,  did 
not  even  attempt  to  retort,  but  retired  to  their  apartment. 

For  several  days  the  Krukaines  could  think  of  nothing  but 
the  disasters  which  they  had  met  with  in  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure ;  and  M.  Krukaine  clearly  proved  to  his  wife  that  a 
more  unhappy  couple  had  never  gone  to  the  fete  of  St.  Cloud. 
His  next  act  was  to  ascertain  the  precise  sum  they  had  spent 
in  their  unlucky  expedition.  After  a  good  deal  of  nice  calcu- 
lation, he  found  that,  including  the  loss  of  basket  and  hat, 
besides  the  total  ruin  of  the  bonnet  and  parasol,  their  expenses 
amounted  to  fifty-seven  francs  twenty-five  centimes.  Madame 
Krukaine  raised  her  eyes  and  clasped  her  hands  as  she 
heard  this  lamentable  result,  from  which  she  concluded  that 
it  was  perfect  ruin  to  think  of  pleasure — a  sentiment  in  which 
her  husband  entirely  acquiesced.  But  even  this  soothing 
delusion  was  not  granted  to  the  Krukaines ;  for  as  Madame 
Brenu  took  good  care  to  inform  them  of  the  exact  sum  which 
had  been  spent  by  the  whole  pic  nic  party,  they  soon  perceived 
that  there  are  two  methods  of  economising — one  by  which 
pleasure  can  be  procured  at  a  moderate  expense,  whilst  serious 
loss  and  inconvenience  are  too  frequently  entailed  by  the  other. 
The  effect  produced  by  this  discovery  is  not  yet  known  ;  but 
it  is  thought  that  the  fit  of  rheumatism  from  which  M.  Kru- 
kaine sufi'ered  shortly  after  the  fete  of  St.  Cloud,  considerably 
softened  the 'rigidity  of  his  economy,  whilst  the  loss  of  her 
yellow  bonnet  produced  a  similar  eifect  on  Madame  Krukaine's 
feelings. 

Though  the  Krukaines  have  not  yet  had  the  magnanimity 
of  acknowledging  their  mistake,  they  have  lately  manifested 
signs  of  improvement  in  a  more  liberal  style  of  living.  What 
must  be  considered  a  good  sign  of  approaching  common  sense 
was  an  observation  which  Madame  made  the  other  day  to  a 
neighbour,  "  that  she  was  afraid  there  is  no  way  of  getting  a 
franc  for  a  centime;"  or,  as  this  wise  saw  may  be  Anglicised 
for  general  benefit,  "  there  is  no  getting  a  shilling  foe  a 

BIXl'SNCE." 


SEVEN    YEARS.  207 


THE  CONSCRIPT. 

It  was  a  mild  spring  afternoon,  with  balmy  breezes  coming 
fiom  distant  fields  to  shut  in  Paris  streets.  Flowers  bloomed 
in  window  pots,  and  birds  twittered  and  sang  in  cages ;  the 
sky  was  blue,  with  a  sprinkling  of  soft  white  fleecy  clouds,  and 
though  there  was  not  much  of  it  to  be  seen  from  La  Rue  des 
Perches, — it  exists  no  longer,  if  indeed  it  ever  existed  under 
that  name, — though,  if  you  stood  iu  the  very  centre  of  that 
street  and  looked  up,  you  could  only  see  a  strip  of  azure  with 
the  uneven  outline  of  dark  and  dingy  roofs  on  eitlier  side,  yet 
even  that  glimpse  of  sky  was  so  cheering  and  so  blue,  that  it 
was  enough  to  make  your  heart  light  for  many  a  day.  Anti- 
quity has  a  charm  of  its  own,  but  old  as  the  Rue  des  Perches 
was,  we  can  scarcely  say  that  we  regret  it  now  it  is  gone.  It 
was  a  long  tortuous  street,  with  shops  like  dens,  and  tall 
wretched-looking  houses  and  alleys,  which  timid  people  would 
not  have  liked  to  enter.  Yet  it  was  not  a  populous  street — 
quite  the  reverse ;  it  was  rather  quiet  and  lonely-looking,  for, 
above  all,  it  looked  poor,  and  the  really  poor  place  is  not  that 
where  a  great  many  people  live,  but  that  where  no  one  can 
live. 

At  the  poorest  and  loneliest  end  of  the  Ruo  des  Perches 
there  stood  a  very  small  and  dark  fruiterer's  shop.  A  few 
withered  cabbages  and  some  stale  fruit  placed  at  the  door 
made  a  melancholy  show,  and  on  the  shelves  within  were  sym- 
metrically arranged  baskets,  which,  though  kindly  supposed 
by  customers  to  contain  something,  were  in  reality  quite 
empty. 

Mathieu  Giraud,  Fruiiier, 

was  written  in  large  and  half-effaced  white  letters  above  the 
door  of  this  humble  abode,  and  the  very  beauty  of  the  spring 
day  only  made  the  withered  cabbages,  the  stale  fruit,  and  the 
dark  shop,  look  more  miserable. 

There  was  no  one  in  that  shop ;  but  in  a  small  back  room 
beyond  it  two  women  were  seated.  They  f^poke  but  little,  and 
busily  plied  their  needles,  though  one  of  them  occasionally 
glanced  towards  the  shop,  as  if  expecting  some  customer  to 
enter  ;  but  the  precaution  was  needless ;  it  remained  vacant ; 


208  SEVEN   YEARS. 

and  at  every  glance  the  wonian  sighed,  and  once  more  resumed 
her  work.  The  back  room  was  small,  and  almost  bare.  A 
dingy  bed,  half  hidden  in  a  recess,  a  table,  and  a  few  chairs  of 
painted  deal,  were  all  the  furniture  it  contained.  It  was  dark, 
moreover,  as  all  back  rooms  have  been  from  time  immemorial, 
and  the  dull  glimmering  light  which  streamed  from  the  high 
narrow  window  appeared  to  increase  rather  than  diminish  tho 
natural  gloom  of  the  place.  The  two  women  were  seated  near 
the  liglit,  which  fell  full  upon  them.  They  were  both  some- 
what advanced  in  years ;  and  their  pale  and  wrinkled  features 
bespoke  a  life  of  poverty  and  care.  They  wei  e  sisters,  but, 
notwithstanding  their  relationship,  very  different  in  temper 
and  personal  appearance.  Antoinette  Griraud,  the  fruiterer's 
■wife,  was  tall  and  thin,  a  simple,  meek-looking  woman,  long 
accustomed  to  misfortune,  to  which  she  had  at  length  submit- 
ted with  a  kind  of  indifference,  proceeding  more  from  a  broken 
spirit  than  from  resignation.  Ma  tante  Anne,  or  Aunt  Anne, 
the  name  under  which  her  sister  was  generally  known,  was,  on 
the  contrary,  a  brisk  little  creature,  full  of  spirit  and  fire,  with 
many  mysterious  winks,  and  nods,  and  prophetic  hints,  which 
it  was  not  given  to  everybody  to  understand.  She  was  a  firm 
believer  in  dreams,  and  held  cards,  as  a  means  of  divination, 
in  great  reverence ;  indeed,  she  trusted  to  them,  and  her 
nightly  visions,  in  almost  every  important  occurrence  of  her 
life  ;  and,  notwithstanding  her  repeated  failures,  held  her  faith 
in  them  unchanged.  It  might,  indeed,  have  been  supposed 
that  Anne  lived  for  the  mere  purpose  of  dreaming  As  she 
liad  never  been  married — her  unlucky  dreams  having,  she  said, 
always  come  in  the  way  just  as  she  was  on  the  point  of  con- 
tracting a  matrimonial  engagement — she  had  for  many  years 
resided  with  her  sister  Antoinette  :  thus,  however,  escaping 
only  a  few  of  tlie  cares  of  matrimony.  The  two  females  had 
been  for  some  time  sewing  in  silence,  when  Antoinette,  paus- 
ing in  her  work,  suddenly  observed  in  a  melancholy  tone  : 

"  No,  no,  I  have  no  hope,  Anne  ;  my  poor  Jean  will  not 
get  a  good  number.  His  father  and  I  have  always  been  un- 
lucky, and  we  shall  be  so  to  the  end."  And  the  old  woman 
shook  her  head  despondingly. 

"  Ha !  Antoinette,"  replied  Anne,  with  mysterious  solem- 
nity, "  if  Jean  had  only  listened  to  me  he  would  have  con- 
sulted Mademoiselle  Leuormand  before  she  died,  and  then  we 
should  have  known  what  number  he  was  to  get,  and  whether 
he  was  to  be  a  soldier  or  not.  But  no  ;  he  always  said  it  was 
throwing  away  money.     Young  people  don't  believe  in  any- 


SEVEN    YEARS.  209 

thing  now-a-days."     And   Anne   shook  her  grey  head   even 
more  sadly  than  her  sister. 

"  If  I  were  only  dead,  they  could  not  take  Jean  from 
you,"  said  a  low  broken  voice,  which  proceeded  from  the  bed 
in  the  recess. 

"  Did  you  speak,  Mathieu  ?  "  inquired  Antoinette,  going 
up  to  the  couch  of  her  paralysed  husband. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  he  muttered,  without  making  a  direct  reply, 
"  Heaven  help  us;  our  poor  Jean  has  no  chance." 

"  Ay,  he  has  no  chance,"  sadly  repeated  his  wife,  resuming 
her  seat. 

Mathieu  and  Antoinette  Giraud  had  been  married  for 
many  years,  and  had  begun  their  wedded  life  with  every  pros- 
pect of  happiness.  In  one  sense  they  had  indeed  been  per- 
fectly happy;  but  so  far  as  worldly  matters  were  concerned, 
they  had  had  to  endure  all  the  trials  of  poverty  and  misfortune 
combined.  After  struo-gling;  for  some  time  afirainst  the  diffi- 
culties  which  surrounded  them,  they  had  at  last  been  obliged 
to  give  in,  and  leave  their  neat  and  comfortable  fruiterer's  shop 
in  the  Rue  St.  Honore  for  one  in  the  centre  of  the  city. 
Scarcely  had  they  removed  to  their  new  lodgings,  when 
Mathieu  became  paralysed.  This  unhappy  event  cast  upon 
his  wife  the  sole  burden  of  attending  to  the  shop  and  support- 
ing the  family.  To  this  task,  notwithstanding  her  strenuous 
efibrts,  Antoinette  would  have  proved  wholly  inefficient,  but 
for  the  aid  she  received  from  her  only  son,  then  a  youth  of  fif- 
teen. Jean  Giraud  was  scarcely  out  of  his  apprenticeship, 
though  he  had  the  heart  and  courage  of  a  man ;  he  was  a  lock- 
smith by  trade,  but,  on  account  of  his  youth,  he  did  not  earn, 
with  all  his  industry,  more  than  a  few  francs  a  week.  On 
this  scanty  sum,  and  the  little  that  Antoinette  and  Anne 
made  by  their  sales  in  the  shop,  and  their  exertions  in  the 
shape  of  needlework,  the  whole  family  contrived  to  live  :  no 
easy  task,  considering  that  old  Mathieu's  illness  was  very  ex- 
pensive. Still,  they  did  live,  and,  as  Antoinette  often  proudly 
observed,  "  without  owing  a  single  sou  to  anybody." 

The  French  working-classes  have,  generally  speaking,  a 
deep  and  wholesome  horror  of  debt. 

As  Jean  grew  oldei",  his  earnings  increased,  and  some  com- 
fort began  to  reign  in  the  little  family.  A  few  hundred  franca 
even  went  to  the  savings'  bank ;  but  this  was  only  a  provision 
for  the  approaching  time  when  Jean  would  probably  be 
snatched  from  his  parents  to  enter  the  army,  according  to  the 
laws  of  the   French  conscription.     The  fated  epoch  had  now 


210  SEVEN    YEARS. 

arrived :  Jean  was  twenty-one ;  and  on  the  next  day  he  was, 
with  the  other  youths  of  the  neighbourhood,  to  proceed  to  the 
Mairie  ;  and  there,  in  the  presence  of  the  mayor,  to  draw  forth 
from  an  urn  a  roll  of  paper  on  which  a  number  was  inscribed. 
If  the  number  was  a  low  one,  such  as  12,  25,  or  even  40  or 
50,  Jean  Giraud  must  bid  his  parents  farewell,  and  become  a 
soldier ;  but  if  it  was  a  high  one,  as,  for  instance.  80,  90,  or 
100,  there  was  little  or  no  chance  of  his  being  ever  called  upon 
to  fight  for  his  country,  and  he  might  quietly  remain  at  home. 
Had  he,  moreover,  been  a  widow's  son,  or  afflicted  with  any 
awkward  deformity,  this  would  have  sufficed,  whatever  num- 
ber he  drew,  to  exclude  him  from  the  service.  This  was  why 
Mathieu,  reo;rettino-  his  own  useless  life,  observed  with  a 
groan,  that  his  poor  Jean  had  no  chance;  whilst  Antoinette, 
thinking  of  her  son's  muscular  and  well-knit  frame,  echoed 
with  a  sigh,   "  Ay,  he  has  no  chance." 

A  melancholy  silence  had  followed  these  last  words,  and 
Antoinette  was  in  the  shop  attending  on  a  customer,  when  Ma 
tante  Anne  mysteriously  drew  a  pack  of  cards  from  her  pocket, 
and  muttering  to  herself,  began  dealing  thein  out,  and  spread- 
ing them  on  the  table  before  her.  For  some  time  she  eyed  the 
cards  with  apparent  satisfaction. 

"  All  goes  on  well,  Antoinette,"  she  eagerly  said,  addressing 
her  sister,  who  now  came  in  from  the  shop  :  "just  look:  here 
is  an  ace  of  diamonds,  which  signifies  good  news;  then  here  are 
plenty  of  clubs,  which  mean  money ;  and  now  see  if  the  card  I 
am  going  to  turn  up  is  not  a  good  one  ?  " 

As  she  spoke  she  In  id  the  ace  of  spades  upon  the  table. 
"  Oh  !  "  she  cried  in  consternation,  "  the  ace  of  spades  !  Why, 
I  can  have  no  hope  after  this  !  But  'tis  all  of  a  piece.  I 
dreamt  of  a  rat  last  night.  Ah  !  poor  Jean,  all  is  ruined  ;  the 
ace  of  spades  !  "  and  she  rocked  herself  in  her  chair  with  every 
token  of  despair. 

''  What !  has  anything  happened  to  Jean  ?  "  inquired  a  low 
and  tremulous  voice  behind. 

Anne  and  Antoinette  both  turned  round  somewhat  hastily ; 
but  more,  however,  to  greet  the  new-comer  than  to  testify  their 
surprise  at  her  unexpected  appearance. 

She  who  thus  anxiously  inquired  after  Jean  was  a  pretty 
brunette,  about  eighteen,  with  glossy  black  hair  smoothed  un- 
der her  little  white  cap,  and  very  brilliant  dark  eyes.  Her 
dress,  though  remarkably  plain  and  simple,  had  that  indescriba- 
ble air  of  neatness  which  characterises  the  better  elass  of  the 
Parisian  grisettes,  and  added  even  a  new  charm  to  her  attrao- 


SKVEN    YEARS.  211 

tive  little  person,  Marie,  for  such  was  the  iiame  of  the  pretty 
grisette,  was  a  gileticre,  or  waistcoat-maker,  and  being  an 
excellent  work-woman,  sometimes  earned  no  contemptible  sum 
by  her  industry.  She  resided  in  the  same  house  with  the 
Girauds,  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  had  for  the  last  six 
months  been  betrothed  to  Jean,  whose  parents  loved  her  almost 
as  tenderly  as  the  young  man  himself.  Marie  of  course  took 
great  interest  in  the  question  of  Jean's  coming  fate,  as  the 
two  lovers  had  agreed  to  postpone  their  marriage  until  all  was 
over.  If  he  was  so  fortunate  as  to  draw  a  good  number,  the 
wedding  was  to  take  place  in  less  than  a  twelvemonth ;  if,  on 
the  contrary,  he  became  a  soldier,  Jean  and  Marie  would  have 
to  wait  eight  years  for  the  fulfilment  of  their  happiness. 

Marie's  spirits  were  not  cast  down  by  this  alternative. 
She  was  an  orphan,  and  had  been  early  taught  self-reliance 
and  trust  in  Providence.  Hope  had  indeed  become  so  habit- 
ual to  her,  that  she  would  have  indulged  in  it  even  under  des- 
perate circumstances.  In  this  disposition  she  was  upheld  not 
only  by  the  buoyancy  of  youth,  but  also  by  her  natural  giod 
sense,  which  led  her  to  contemplate  even  misfortune  under  its 
most  advantageous  aspect.  Besides,  as  she  sometimes  philo- 
sophically observed,  "  God  was  for  all ;  for  both  rich  and  poor." 
It  must,  however,  be  confessed  that,  notwithstanding  her  phi- 
losophy, Marie  felt  no  little  anxiety  to  know  the  result  of 
Jean's  trial  on  the  next  day.  Eight  years  was  a  long  period 
to  pass  without  perhaps  seeing  him  more  than  once  or  twice ! 
And  even  less  selfish  considerations  led  her  to  fear  this  result 
when  she  reflected  on  the  unhappy  condition  to  which  his  ab- 
sence would  reduce  his  parents.  As  she  entered  the  back 
room  on  this  evening,  and  heard  Aunt  xVnne  mention  the 
name  of  her  betrothed  in  a  tone  of  despair,  Marie,  therefore, 
felt  some  uneasiness ;  and  receiving  no  reply  to  her  first 
question,  she  anxiously  repeated,  "  Has  anything  happened  to 
Jean  ?  " 

"  No,  Marie,"  sadly  replied  Antoinette ;  "  'tis  only  the 
old  story  :  to-morrow  is  the  day." 

"  Ay,  to-morrow  is  the  day,"  sorrowfully  echoed  Anne  ; 
"  and  depend  upon  it  poor  Jean  will  go.  I  did  not  turn  up 
an  ace  of  spades,  or  dream  of  a  rat,  for  nothing." 

"  Oh  !  is  that  all?  "  said  Marie,  somewhat  relieved  5  "he 
has  still  a  chance,  I  hope." 

"  A  chance  !  "  doubtfully  answered  Antoinette  ;  "  have  we 
not  always  been  unlucky  ?  No,  no,  we  have  no  chance.  If 
even  Jean  was  lame,  or  wanted  a  few  teeth,  or — " 


212  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

"  Well,"  interrupted  Marie,  laughing  in  spite  of  her  real 
grief,  "  I  am  not  sorry,  for  my  part,  that  he  is  not  exactly  as 
you  would  wish  him  to  be.  But,"  added  she,  more  gravely, 
"  you  must  not  get  into  low  spirits,  Madame  Giraud  ;  though 
you  have  not  been  very  happy  as  yet,  it  is  true,  still  a  day 
comes  at  last  for  the  poor  as  well  as  for  the  rich." 

Here  Mathieu  sighed  audibly,  and  IMarie  approached  the 
old  man's  bed. 

"  How  are  you  this  evening,  Monsieur  Giraud  ?  "  said  she, 
gently. 

Mathieu  gazed  on  her  tenderly,  but  made  no  reply.  He 
had  known  and  loved  Marie  for  years ;  for  when  he  first  fell 
ill,  his  wife  and  sister-in-law  being  sometimes  compelled  to 
leave  him  alone,  tlie  young  waistcoat-maker  would  then  come 
and  sit  by  his  bedside  with  her  work,  cheering  him  with  her 
pleasant  laugh  and  merry  song.  It  is  indeed  quite  charac- 
teristic of  the  grisette  that  she  always  sings,  and  she  has  even 
prettily  and  poetically  been  called  "  the  lark  of  Paris." 
Never,  surely,  was  there  a  merrier  lark  than  Marie.  From 
staying  occasionally  near  the  old  man,  she  at  last  came  to 
spend  with  him  a  few  hours  everyday;  this  was  mostly  in 
the  evening  time,  when  Jean  came  home  from  work.  The 
young  mail  would  then  sit  at  the  head  of  his  father's  bed, 
whilst  Marie  was  working  at  the  foot.  It  was  thus  their 
courtship  began,  to  the  great  delight  of  old  Mathieu,  who  was 
never  happier  than  when  he  could  thus  see  them  together,  and 
who  now  dwelt  with  bitter  grief  on  their  approaching  separa- 
tion. 

"  If  I  were  dead,"  said  he,  sadly  gazing  upon  her,  "  you 
could  be  his  wife." 

Marie's  eyes  filled  with  tears  ;  but  striving  to  hide  her 
feelings,  she  observed  with  apparent  cheerfulness :  "  And  why 
not  whilst  you  are  alive.  Monsieur  Giraud  ?  " 

"  Because  Jean  will  have  a  bad  number,"  replied  the  old 
man,  in  the  same  desponding  tone. 

"  Well,  really,"  exclaimed  Marie,  with  some  impatience, 
''  you  all  seem  quite  determined  that  it  should  be  so.  Aunt 
A.nue  has  turned  up  an  ace  of  spades,  and  of  course  Jean 
must  be  a  soldier ;  Madame  Giraud  says  that  she  is  poor  and 
unlucky,  and  that  there  is  no  chance  for  him  ;  and  even  you, 
Father  Giraud,"  she  added  in  her  most  caressing  yet  reproach- 
ful tone — "  even  you  must  needs  put  in  that,  if  you  were  dead, 
I  should  be  his  wife  !  Beally  this  is  too  bad.  I  came  here  to 
seek  for  a  little   comfort,  and  not  only  find  none   for  myself 


SiiVEJSr    YEAES.  213 

but  cannot  even  aiFord  any.  I  suppose,"  she  pettishly  con- 
tinued, "  Jean  will  be  as  bad  as  the  rest  of  you  when  he  comes 
home." 

As  she  spoke  thus,  the  door  leading  from  the  shop  to  the 
back  room  opened,  and  Jean  entered. 

Jean  Giraud  was,  indeed,  as  his  mother  had  averred,  not 
so  fortunate  as  to  be  afflicted  with  any  personal  deformity. 
Far  from  it.  He  was  tall,  well-made,  and  good-looking;  and 
his  curly  chestnut  hair,  dark  blue  eyes,  and  fresh  colour,  pro- 
claimed him  to  belong  to  the  real  Frank  race  of  his  country. 
But  on  this  evening  a  cloud  sat  on  his  usually  open  brow,  and 
notwithstanding  his  efiorts  to  conceal  his  feelings,  the  restless 
glance  of  his  eye,  and  the  occasional  nervous  twitching  of  his 
lips,  betrayed  his  secret  anxiety.  Jean  Giraud  was  as  much 
of  a  hero  as  any  of  his  countrymen  ;  he  certainly  was  not  of  a 
timid  disposition,  and  personal  apprehensions  had  nothing  to 
do  with  his  present  feelings.  His  only  thoughts  were  for  his 
parents.  What  were  they  to  do  when  he  was  gone  ?  Who 
was  to  support  them  in  their  present  helpless  condition  ?  For 
Antoinette  and  her  sister  earned  very  little,  and  what  the  shop 
brought  in  was  barely  sufficient  to  pay  the  rent  and  taxes. 
Jean's  mind  brooded  on  these  thoughts  until  he  was  well-nigh 
distracted.  Though  he  loved  Marie  most  tenderly,  still  it  was 
not  the  prospect  of  parting  from  her  that  now  saddened  him  : 
she  was  eighteen,  and  he  twenty-one;  they  were  both  young, 
and  might  wait  even  eight  years  and  yet  be  happy.  liJut  his 
parents !  he  sti-ove  to  think  no  more  of  the  subject,  but  in 
vain. 

As  he  entered  the  back  room  whore  the  little  family  and 
his  betrothed  were  seated  together,  Jean,  however,  endeavoured 
to  assume  somethino;  like  cheerfulness.  He  whistled  a  tune 
with  even  more  than  usual  glee,  bade  Marie  good-evening  with 
a  merry  joke,  and,  sitting  down  at  the  head  of  his  father's  bed, 
declared  he  had  never  been  so  hungry  for  supper.  Antoinette 
rode  silently,  and,  assisted  by  Marie,  began  laying  the  things 
on  the  table.  The  supper  was  a  frugal  one,  consisting  merely 
of  some  bread,  cheese,  and  wine.  They  all  sat  down  to  it  in 
silence,  Jean  in  vain  endeavouring  to  appear  cheerful,  in  order 
to  induce  his  mother  and  aunt  to  imitate  his  example.  Scarce- 
ly was  the  meal  over,  when  Antoinette,  overcome  by  her  feel- 
ings, burst  into  tears. 

"Why,  maman,  what  is  tlie  matter?"  exclaimed  her  son 
with  astonishment. 


214:  SEVEN    YEAES. 

"Ah,  Jean!  what  were  you  whistling?"  she  sorrowfully 
replied. 

Jean  started,  for  he  had  been  humming  the  tune  of  the 
Parisienne,  a  favourite  military  song. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Anne,  mystically  shaking  her  head,  "  'tis 
only  another  token.  I  did  not  turn  up  the  ace  of  spades  for 
nothing." 

"  Well,  and  let  us  suppose,  after  all,  that  he  should  get  a 
bad  number,"  resolutely  observed  Marie,  "he  will  not  die  for 
it — nor  shall  we,  I  hope.  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say, 
Jean,"  she  quickly  added,  noticing  her  betrothed's- sorrowful 
look  as  it  rested  on  his  mother ,  "  but  I  feel  very  dull  in  my 
room  up  stairs ;  what  if,  when  you  are  gone,  I  should  lodge 
here?  Madame  Giraud  could  take  care  of  my  money  for  me, 
and  I  am  sure  that  would  be  a  great  relief;  for  though  I  do 
not  earn  much,  still  sometimes  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
it,  little  as  it  is." 

"  Marie !  "  exclaimed  Jean,  in  an  agitated  tone. 

"  I  won't  be  interrupted,"  peremptorily  said  his  betrothed ; 
"  besides,  Monsieur  Jean,  this  does  not  concern  you,  for  it  is 
all  to  be  whilst  you  are  away :  your  only  business  will  be  to 
write  us  such  amusing  letters  as  may  make  us  laugh  heartily." 

"  And  if  he  goes  to  Algeria  ?  "  observed  his  mother,  in  a 
faltering  tone. 

"  Well,"  replied  Marie,  with  a  faint  attempt  to  smile,  "  he 
will  perhaps  catch  Abd-el-Kader,  and  become  marshal  of 
France."  But  unable  to  control  her  emotion  any  longer,  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  fairly  burst  into  tears. 

"  Marie  !  "  cried  Jean,  reproachi'ully, — but  he  also  could 
get  no  further;  and  leaning  his  brow  upon  his  hand,  he  looked 
very  fixedly  at  the  table. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Marie,  after  a  brief  though  sad  pause, 
"  all  is  not  desperate  yet.  God  is  for  the  poor  as  well  as  for 
the  rich,  and  perhaps  He  will  leave  us  Jean." 

The  next  morning  was  as  bright  and  fair  a  one  as  was  ever 
seen  in  spring,  and  the  sun  shone  quite  merrily  into  Madame 
Giraud's  shop,  where,  with  Ma  tante  Anne,  Antoinette  was 
engaged  in  arranging  everything,  though  the  thoughts  of  both 
were  certainly  but  little  engrossed  by  their  mutual  occupa- 
tion. 

"  Antoinette  !  "  suddenly  said  Anne,  "  do  you  know  what  I 
dreamed  of  last  night  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  her  sister,  slightly  starting  ;  "  what  was  it 
about,  Anne  ?  " 


SEVEN    TEARS.  215 

"  I  dreamed  that  Jean  had  a  black  spot  on  his  forehead." 

"  Well,  atjd  what  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"  That  means  that  he  will  have  a  bad  number." 

"  Heaven  have  mercy  upon  us  !  "  sorrowfully  observed  An- 
toinette ;   "  but  perhaps,  sister,  you  are  mistaken  ?  " 

"  Mistaken  !  "  echoed  Anne,  with  undisguised  wonder ; 
"  would  indeed  I  were  ;  but  you  know,  Antoinette,  I  was 
never  mistaken  yet  in  a  dream  ;  besides,"  she  muttered  to  her- 
self, "  I  shall  try  the  cards  by  and  by,  and  then  we  shall  know 
all  about  it." 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Antoinette,  "here  is  Jean  ;  it  is  of  no  use 
to  sadden  the  poor  fellow." 

Jean  indeed  entered  the  shop  dressed,  and,  as  his  poor 
mother  declared,  with  a  faint  attempt  to  smile,  quite  spruce. 
Though  not  looking  particularly  merry,  he  did  not  seem  to  be 
very  sad  ;  he  was  calm  and  composed  ;  for  if  he  felt  acutely, 
still  his  pride  would  not  allow  him  to  betray  any  unbecoming 
emotion  in  the  presence  of  his  comrades  who  were  to  accom- 
pany him  to  the  Mairie.  After  greeting  his  mother  and  aunt, 
Jean  entered  the  back  room,  and  sat  down  by  his  father's  bed- 
side. The  old  man  was  asleep,  but  he  soon  awoke  ;  and  taking 
his  son's  hand  between  his  own,  gazed  upon  him  with  melan- 
choly tenderness. 

"  Jean,  my  boy,"  said  he,  in  a  low  tremulous  voice,  "  think 
of  your  poor  father  whilst  you  are  away,  and  of  your  mother 
too  ;  perhaps  you  will  never  see  them  again.  Ah  !  this  will 
be  a  sore  blew  to  Antoinette,"  he  added,  in  a  mournful  tone. 

Jean  rose,  and  walked  about  the  room  :  all  this  was  truly 
hard  to  bear. 

He  found  it  harder  still  when  he  sat  down  to  breakfast  be- 
tween his  mother  and  Marie,  whose  red  eyes  and  pale  cheeks 
testified  that  she  had  spent  a  sleepless  night.  The  meal  was 
a  silent  one,  but  it  was  nearly  concluded  when  Anne  entered 
the  room.  She  was  more  than  usually  grave,  and  shook  her 
head  in  a  most  prophetic  and  Sibyl-like  manner.  "What  Ls 
the  matter,  Anne  ?  "  tremulously  inquired  Antoinette. 

"  L  have  just  been  dealing  out  the  cards  in  my  room." 

"  Well,"  anxiously  said  the  poor  mother,  "  what  about 
Jean  ?  " 

"  I  have  seeu  the  number  he  is  to  get." 

"  Ah  !   which  is  it  ?  "  eagerly  a^ked  Madame  Giraud. 

"  Jean  will  get  number  l!7,"  replied  iVnue,  solemnly. 

"A  bad  number  !  "  faintly  echoed  Antoinette. 


216  SEVEN    YEABS. 

"  Maman,"  almost  angrily  exclaimed  Jean,  "  can  anything 
so  foolish  affect  you  thus  ?  " 

"  Foolish  !  "  cried  Anne,  indignantly ;  "  ha  !  young  people 
don't  believe  in  anything  now-a-days.  I  only  grieve  for  you, 
Jean,  that  I  am  in  the  right;  would  indeed  I  were  wrong,  and 
that  you  were  not  to  get  that  ugly  number  27  ! " 

Jean  knew  his  aunt's  obstinacy  on  this  head,  and,  unwill- 
ing to  irritate  her  uselessly,  he  dropped  the  subject. 

When  the  breakfast  was  over — and  a  cheerless  one  it  was 
— all  arose,  for  it  was  time  for  Jean  to  depart.  He  first  went 
to^  his  father's  bedside.  Old  Mathieu  caused  himself  to  be 
raised  on  his  couch,  and  in  a  low  broken  tone  muttered  a  heart- 
felt benediction  over  his  son,  whilst  the  weeping  Antoinette 
stood  near  him.  From  his  parents  Jean  turned  to  Aunt  Anne, 
who  very  affectionately  embraced  him,  but  muttered  something 
at  the  same  time  about  his  unfortunate  incredulity,  and  num- 
ber 27.  Marie  alone  seemed  collected  and  calm,  and  though 
she  was  sad,  a  smile  of  hope  played  around  her  lips. 

"  Be  of  good  cheer,  Jean,"  said  she,  giving  him  her  hand  : 
"  God  is  for  us  all,  for  the  poor  and  the  rich.  Be  of  good 
cheer ;  should  even  the  worst  happen,  we  will  strive  to  bear  it 
patiently." 

Jean  gazed  affectionately  on  his  betrothed,  and  once  more 
embracing  his  weeping  mother,  precipitately  left  the  house,  not 
daring  to  trust  himself  with  a  look  beliind. 

We  will  not  endeavour  to  describe  the  hours  of  anxious  ex- 
pectation that  followed — liours  that  actually  seemed  days,  so 
slowly  and  tediously  did  they  drag  along.  Antoinette,  under 
pretence  of  seeing  to  the  shop,  was  constantly  looking  in  the 
street  for  Jean  ;  whilst  Anne  every  quarter  of  an  hour  went 
up-stairs  to  her  room  with  a  aiy.sterious  look,  and  came  down 
again  with  a  clouded  brow  and  ominous  glance.  The  infection 
seemed  to  have  caught  Murie  herself;  for  though  she  sat  with 
her  work  near  Mathieu's  bed,  the  old  man  sadly  remarked  that 
her  needle  often  flagged,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  many 
days,  that  she  had  no  merry  song  to  cheer  him.  Then  there 
were  two  or  three  old  neighbours  who  occasionally  peeped  in 
and  out  with  wo-begone  features,  holdine  mysterious  confer- 
ences with  Aunt  Anne,  and  startling  her  poor  sister  by  dismal 
tales  of  many  a  young  and  handsome  conscript  whom  they  had 
known,  and  who  had  fallen,  poor  fellow,  in  his  first  battle.  In 
short,  they  were  all  as  comfortably  miserable  as  they  could  be, 
when  Marie,  unable  to  bear  her  impatience  any  longer,  left 
her  work,   and   going  to  the  shop-door,  looked  out  into  the 


SEVEN    YEAES.  217 

slroet.  It  was  vacant,  and  no  token  of  Jean  was  to  be  seen. 
With  a  sioli  rilie  once  more  entered  the  back  room;  she  had 
scarc;'Iy,  however,  reached  the  threshold,  when  she  suddenly 
paused,  and  turned  pale  :  a  loud  shout  had  echoed  at  the 
iurthe.st  end  of  the  street. 

"  The  conscripts  !  "  said  Antoinette,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  So  soon  !  "  answered  Marie,  with  seeming  indifference  ; 
"  don't  you  think  it  miiy  be  something  else  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  replied  x\ntoiuette,  in  a  feverish  voice ;  "  it  is 
the  conscripts  ;   I  hear  their  music." 

The  merry  sounds  of  a  fiddle  inight,  indeed,  as  she  spoke, 
be  heard  at  the  end  of  the  street.  Supported  by  Marie,  for 
she  was  nearly  overcome  with  emotion,  and  followed  by  her 
sister,  the  poor  mother  proceeded  to  the  fnmt  door,  whilst 
Mathieu  prayed  fervently  in  his  bed. 

When  they  looked  out,  the  conscripts  still  stood  somewhat 
far  down  in  the  street.  Their  Iiats  Avere  ornamented  with  tri- 
colorcd  favours,  and  the  number  each  had  drawn,  whether  good 
or  bad,  was  fixed  in  his  hatband,  and  visible  even  at  a  dis- 
tance. But  Antoinette  and  Marie  vainly  strove  to  distinguish 
Jean  in  the  crowd. 

"  I  see  him  !  "  at  length  cried  Marie,  turning  pale. 

''  Ha  !  where  is  he  ?  what  is  his  number  ?  "  simultaneously 
exclaimed  the  two  sisters,  less  clear-sighted  than  their  young 
companion.    * 

"  There — there  beyond  :  he  looks  round  this  way  ;  but  I 
can  see  nothing  of  his  number." 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  see  him  now,"  eagerly  remarked  Aunt  Anne  ; 
"  and  alas  !  poor  boy,  I  can  see  his  number  too.  Ah  !  I  knew 
it— L>7  !  " 

"  It  is  not  27,"  hastily  observed  Marie ;  "  for  see,  Aunt 
Anne,  Jean  holds  up  his  hat  for  us  to  see  it :  the  number  be- 
gins with  a  one,  and  then  there  is  a  nought." 

"  Ay,  ten,"  said  Anne  ;  "  worse  still  than  27 ;  I  knew  it 
was  a  bad  one." 

"  No,  it  is  not  ten,"  continued  Marie,  in  a  tone  tremulous 
with  emotion,  "  there  is  another  nought — it  is  a  hundred  ;  " 
and  falling  down  on  a  chair,  she  burst  into  tears,  whilst  Jean 
rushed  into  the  shop,  waving  his  hat  with  triumph. 

We  will  not  endeavour  to  describe  the  scene  that  followed — 
Old  Mathieu's  joy,  Antoinette's  silent  rapture,  and  Marie's 
bright  smiles.  Aunt  Anne,  though  greatly  delighted,  was  very 
mucii  surprised  :  both  her  dreams  and  cards  had  for  once  sig- 
nally failed.  As  for  the  dream,  it  was,  she  averred,  quite  her 
10 


218  SEVEN    YEARS. 

own  mistake,  for  evidently  the  spot  on  Jean's  forehead  meant 
nothing  :  it  should  have  been  on  his  hat,  to  prove  at  all  signifi- 
cant !  Then  she  had  most  probably  misdealt  the  cards;  such 
an  error  could  never  otherwise  have  happened — nay,  she  even 
recollected  something  about  a  hundred  !  Further  tha,n  this 
Aunt  Anne  would  never  yield  when  remonstrated  with  on  the 
subject.  It  is,  however,  worthy  of  remark,  that  her  faith  in 
dreams  and  cards  seemed  rather  shaken,  as  she  henceforth  in- 
dulged in  much  less  speculation  concerning  them  than  she  had 
formerly  been  in  the  habit  of  doing.  As  for  the  old  neighbours, 
they  were  very  much  pleased,  but  not  so  much  surprised  ;  they 
were  almost  certain  all  would  turn  out  well,  but  had  not  said 
so,  lest  they  should  excite  expectations  that  might  be  deceived. 
But  to  return  to  the  conscript  and  his  family. 

The  day  was  spent  by  them  in  much  happiness ;  indeed 
there  was  almost  too  much  of  this  quality  in  it.  The  event 
was  so  delightful,  so  unexpected,  so  everything  that  was 
pleasant,  that  Antoinette,  Anne,  Marie,  and  Jean  were  quite 
bewildered.  Mathieu  seemed  alone  a  little  sensible.  Towards 
evening  they  had,  however,  grown  calmer,  and  after  supper, 
sat  up  to  make  plans  for  the  future — the  only  apparent  conse- 
quence of  which  was,  their  separating  very  late.  When  Marie 
at  length  rose  to  depart,  and  bent  over  Mathieu  to  bid  him  good- 
night, she  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  whispering  to 
liim — "  Well,  Father  Giraud,  do  you  wish  to  die  now  ?  " 

"  No,  Marie,"  said  he,  gazing  on  her  affectionately  ;  "  no, 
not  yet." 

"And  you,  Madame  Giraud,"  playfully  said  the  young 
girl,  turning  towards  Antoinette,  ''  don't  you  think  we  poor 
folks  are  sometimes  as  happy  as  the  rich,  if  not  a  great  deal 
more  so  ?  " 

"  Ay,  and  ten  times  as  happy,"  warmly  replied  Antoinette, 
who  was  now  quite  merry. 

"  No,  not  ten  times,"  smilingly  observed  Marie  ;  "  for  you 
know  God  watches  over  both  rich  and  poor." 

The  sequel  need  scarcely  be  told.  In  less  than  a  year  Jean 
and  Marie  were  married,  and  old  Mathieu,  though  still  para- 
lysed, declared  himself  so  happy  at  the  event,  that  he  expressed 
his  readiness  to  die  ;  which  has  not,  however,  prevented  him 
from  living  ever  since,  and  rejjeatiug  the  same  wish  on  the  birth 
of  his  son's  first  child,  which,  being  a  girl,  will  give  its  parents 
no  uneasiness  on  the  subject  of  the  conscription.  Jean  and 
Marie  have  not  grown  very  rich,  but  they  have  left  the  Hue  des 
Perches,  for  a  pleasa;nt  airy  street  in  the  suburbs,  and  a  fresh 


SEVEN    YEABS.  219 

^/een-shop,  where  the  cabbages  are  never  withered,  and  which 
is  so  frequently  visited  by  the  children  of  the  neighbourhood, 
that  no  fruit  grows  stale  in  it.  Antoinette  superintends  the 
general  concerns  of  the  houvse,  Anne  has  taken  charge  of  the 
little  Marie,  whose  horoscope  she  persists  in  formally  drawing 
on  every  anniversary  of  her  birthday.  Jean  attends  to  his 
work ;  and  Marie,  though  she  still  contrives  to  earn  a  few 
francs  with  her  waistcoats,  attends  to  the  shop,  and,  as  old 
Mathieu  declares,  gladdens  the  whole  place  with  her  merry 
song.  "  And  yet,"  as  she  often  observes,  "  how  strange  that 
all  this  happiness  should  have  depended  on  one  insignificant 
little  number  !  "  It  is  true  Marie  generally  closes  this  philo- 
sophical remark  by  quoting  her  favourite  saying ;  but  it  is,  we 
hope,  too  well  impressed  on  the  mind  of  the  reader  to  require 
repetition, 
mmiuo 


GAIETY  AND  GLOOM. 

Among  the  passengers  on  board  a  steamer  which  one  morn- 
ing left  Dover  for  Calais,  was  a  young  Englishman  of  some- 
what fashionable  appearance,  who  seemed  to  shun  as  far  as 
possible  all  contact  with  his  fellow-travellers  :  wrapped  up  in 
mysterious  silence,  he  proceeded,  on  landing,  by  the  first  dili- 
gence which  departed  for  Paris.  All  we  have  to  say  concerns 
this  young  gentleman,  and  we  may  as  well  tell  his  history  at 
once. 

Frank  Mai'low  was  the  son  of  a  respectable  London  mer- 
chant, who  had  given  him  an  education  at  Eton,  which  fully 
qualified  him  in  that  very  easy  art — the  art  of  spending.  To 
do  justice  to  Frank  Marlow,  he  took  very  kindly  to  this  piece 
of  ingenuity.  In  little  more  than  two  years  after  the  old  gen- 
tleman's death,  he  had  got  through  his  handsome  patrimony ; 
a  mere  wreck  was  all  that  remained  ;  and  here  he  was,  a  self- 
exiled  man,  seeking  for  oblivion  in  the  obscurities  of  Paris. 

Like  most  persons  who  have  gone  through  a  fortune,  Frank 
was  full  of  terrible  notions  about  tlie  rapacity  of  mankind.  He 
had  been  cruelly  used  by  his  so  called  friends.  The  world  was 
.all  a  mass  of  deceit.  "  Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity,"  was 
his  song,  and  a  very  appropriate  song,  too,  for  all  exhausted 
prodigals  to  sing.  Frank,  at  eight-and-twenty,  was  a  gloomy 
misanthrope,  a  hater  of  everybody  ;  though  there  was  only  one 


220  SEVEN    YEARS. 

man  on  the  wide  earth  whom  he  should  have  despised,  and  that 
was  himself. 

Frank  souo;ht  oblivion.  He  wanted  to  live  no  one  knew 
where ;  and  the  more  obscurely  he  could  hide  himself,  he 
thought  he  should  be  the  happier.  Several  lodgings  were  tried 
in  Paris,  but  thej  proved  too  garish  and  cheerful.  In'  one 
house  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  flageolet,  whieli  was  enough. 
Horrid,  deceitful  villains — all  bad  people  are  merry  !  At 
length  he  fell  upon  a  lodging  quite  to  his  fancy.  It  was  on  a 
fourth  floor  of  a  tall  old-fashioued  building — so  exceedingly  tall 
and  narrow,  that  it  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  squeezed  out  of 
shape  by  the  houses  which  leant  upon  it.  This  uncomfortable- 
looking  tenement  was  situated  in  a  dull,  narrow  street,  into 
which  very  little  sun  ever  shone.  It  had  the  air  of  a  great, 
long  grave  ;  just  the  kind  of  abode  for  people  who  take  a  fancy 
to  be  miserable. 

Satisfactory  as  the  new  lodging  was  in  many  respects,  a 
day  or  two's  experience  showed  the  morose  young  English- 
man that,  if  he  wanted  to  be  perfectly  beyond  the  reach  of 
gaiety,  Paris  was  the  worst  place  in  the  world  to  which  he 
could  have  come.  The  landlady,  Madame  Bernard,  was  an 
exceedingly  merry,  sweet-tempered  person.  As  the  wife  of  an 
operative  locksmith,  who  did  not  enjoy  good  health,  the  mother 
of  several  children,  the  protector  of  a  poor  orphan  niece, 
Adele,  and  the  mistress  of  a  very  limited  accommodation,  she 
may  be  supposed  to  have  had  some  tolerable  reasons  for 
being  careworn  ;  but  not  all  these  things,  nor  the  gloomy, 
gravelike  street  in  which  she  lived,  could  force  a  sigh  from 
her  bosom.  She  was  always  as  bright  as  a  streak  of  .sun- 
shine. While  toiling  in  her  little  den  of  a  kitchen,  whose 
only  light  was  that  of  a  sepulchral-looking  lamp,  the  French- 
woman was  as  blithe  as  any  uncaged  lark. 

It  was  perhaps  because  Frank  did  not  see  much  of  this 
gaiety  that  he  did  not  feel  seriously  disti'essed  about  it.  His 
interviews  with  Madame  were  few  and  short.  Her  principal 
visit  was  to  kindle  his  fire,  and  serve  his  coffee  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  on  such  occasions  she  usad  to  launch  out  a  iittle  in 
the  way  of  gossip,  believing,  kind  soul,  that  Monsieur  had 
some  great  grief  which  needed  to  be  assuaged  by  conversation. 
Among  other  sutjjects  on  which  she  expatiated  was  that  of 
neighbours — a  fruitful  one  to  landladies  all  the  world  over. 
In  spite  of  himself,  Frank,  found  that  Madame  Bernard's 
gossip  was  worth  listening  to,  for  it  gave  a  sort  of  insight  into 
human  nature. 


SEVEN   YEARS.  221 

First  on  the  good  dame's  list  came  a  mysterious  couple. 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Dezille,  who  seemed  to  live  in  a  pinch- 
ed kind  of  a  way.  Madame  was  a  tall,  pale,  melancholy-look- 
ing woman,  who  appeared  to  carry  in  her  mind  some  ponderous 
secret,  and  was  always  embroidering  purses.  Her  husband 
was  a  comical-looking  little  man,  who  was  never  seen  but  in  a 
long  great-coat,  that  fell  down  to  his  heels.  The  most  incom- 
prehensible thing  about  him,  however,  was  his  practice  of  re- 
maining at  home  all  day,  and  his  going  out  at  night,  aud 
never  returning  till  past  two  in  the  morning,  to  the  great 
wrath  of  the  portress,  who,  out  of  pure  spite,  averred  that  he 
was  a  mouchard,  or  secret  spy  of  the  police.  She  even  once 
called  him  so  to  his  face ;  but  Monsieur  Dezille,  far  from 
making  any  contradictory  reply  calculated  to  enlighten  her  on 
the  subject,  listened  to  her  with  provoking  complacency,  and 
quietly  bidding  her  good-morning,  walked  up-stairs. 

The  great  secret  at  length  came  out.  It  was  discovered, 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  portress  and  her  lodgers,  that  Mon- 
sieur Dezille  repaired  every  evening  to  a  public  ball  behind 
the  Palais  Royal,  where  his  office  consisted  in  taking  care  of 
the  canes  and  umbrellas  belonging  to  the  dancers,  for  which 
dignified  occupation  he  received  the  munificent  salary  of  sixty 
francs  (about  £2  8s.)  a  month,  as  long  as  the  ball  was  open — ■ 
that  is  to  say,  during  the  winter  season  only.  How  he  and  his 
wife  lived  througliout  the  a-emainder  of  the  year  was  more  than 
any  one  could  telL  From  the  moment  that  these  circumstances 
were  known  to  them,  the  portress  and  lodgers  ceased  to  inter- 
est themselves  any  further  in  the  fate  of  the  humble  pair; 
but  Marlow  observed — and  the  trait  impressed  him  with  a 
favourable  opinion  of  her  character — that  whereas  Madame 
Bernard  had  formerly  looked  with  a  suspicious  eye  on  her 
ueio-hbours,  she  now  no  sooner  knew  them  to  be  honest,  thouoh 
poor,  than  she  immediately  gave  them  tokens  of  her  good- 
will by  numerous  little  attentions  she  had  formerly  neglected 
to  pay. 

Somehow  or  other — perhaps  because  they  instinctively  saw 
the  truth  and  simplicity  of  her  character — the  shy  and  proud 
couple  grew  more  condescending ;  aud  though  evidently  su- 
perior, in  education  at  least,  to  the  locksmith  and  his  wife, 
they  freely  conversed  with  them,  until  they  at  last  came  to  be 
on  very  amicable  terms  together.  And  then,  but  not  till 
then,  did  Madame  Dezille  confide  to  her  simple  good-natured 
friend  the  secret  which  weighed  on  her  soul.  "  Monsieur  De- 
zille " — she   scorned  the   vulgar  term  of  her  husband — "  was 


222  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

not  merely  what  he  seemed  to  be  :  he  was  more — he  was  a  poet 
and  an  author."  Madame  Bernard  heard  with  silent  awe.  "  Like 
that  of  other  great  men,  his  life  had  been  a  perfect  romance. 
He  was  a  god-son  of  a  reigning  potentate — a  German  one," 
added  Madame  Dezille,  with  strong  emphasis,  "  whose  valet 
bis  father  had  been  for  many  years  whilst  he  was  exiled  in 
France  by  his  rebellious  subjects." 

Then  followed  a  thrilling  narrative  of  pei'secutions,  im- 
prisonments in  deep  dungeons,  and  hair-breadth  escapes  over 
high  castle  walls,  all  of  which  had  been  endured  and  effected 
by  Monsieur  Dezille  in  foreign  lands,  through  the  enmity  of 
his  unnatural  god-ftither,  whom  he  had  unluckily  ofiended; 
until,  after  innumerable  difiiculties,  he  succeeded  in  reaching 
his  native  coviutry,  where,  like  another  Othello,  he  won  his 
Desdemona  by  the  history  of  the  sufferings  his  youth  had  un- 
dergone. All  this  Madame  Bernard,  good,  simple  soul,  heard 
with  reverend  belief  Indeed  it  is  very  probable  that  it  was 
almost  all  true  ;  and,  far  from  diminishing  or  abridging  the 
narrative,  which  she  the  very  next  day  repeated  to  Marlow 
she  rather  increased  its  bulk  by  a  few  additional  embellish' 
ments  of  her  own,  which  she  very  innocently  and  uncon- 
sciously bestowed  on  Monsieur  Dezille's  adventures. 

The  occupier  of  the  third  apartment  on  the  landing  was  a 
morose,  surly  old  bachelor,  named  Ricord,  whom  everybody 
disliked — even  the  kind  Madame  Bernard,  if  indeed  she  ever 
disliked  anybody — and  who  played  on  an  old  fiddle,  as  cross 
and  croaking  as  himself.  It  was  some  time  before  Marlow 
discovered  this  circumstance;  and  even  when  it  became  known 
to  him,  he  was  reconciled  to  it  by  the  character  of  the  musi- 
♦■^ian,  which,  as  described  by  Madame  Bernard,  who  had 
learned  it  from  the  portress,  was  anything  but  cheerful  or 
lively. 

Several  months  passed  away,  during  which  Marlow,  whose 
only  amusement  was  listening  to  Madame  Bernard's  morning 
conversation,  felt  very  dull,  yet  nevertheless  persisted  in  his 
misanthropic  mode  of  existence.  One  cold  winter's  day,  when 
he  was  as  usual  poring  over  the  "  Journal  des  Debats,"  and 
occasionally  listening  to  his  landlady,  he  gradually  drew  away 
his  attention  from  the  newspaper  to  bestow  it  on  Madame 
Bernard.  She  was  talking  of  Monsieur  and  Madame  Dezille 
with  more  than  customary  animation. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  continued,  for  she  had  been  speaking  for 
Bome  time,  "  I  met  Madame  Dezille  on  the  stairs  last  uight, 
and  she  told  me  everything  about  it.     Monsieur  Dezille  has 


SEVEN    YEARS. 


223 


just  fiuislied  a  superhe  comedy,  all  about  kings  and  queens. 
Monsieur,"  addressing  Marlow,  "has  heard,  I  suppose,  that 
his  father  was  valet  to  a  German  sovereign,  so  that  he  of 
course  knows  everything  about  these  great  people  ;  and  his 
god-father,  with  all  the  princes  and  princesses,  are  to  be  in  it; 
and  when  it  is  acted,  it  will  create  little  less  than  a  revolution 
in  Grermany  ;  for  Madame  Dezille  says  that  when  he  read  it 
to  her,  it  made  her  hair  stand  all  on  end,  it  was  so  awful. 
But  what  shows,  moreover,  that  it  is  certainly  a  good  comedy 
is,  that  Monsieur  Dezille,  after  treating  all  his  friends  and 
comrades  of  the  ball-room  where  he  goes  in  the  evening,  read 
it  to  them,  and  could  scarcely  go  on  with  it  for  their  applause. 
Indeed  they  all  to  a  man  declared  that  the  director  of  the 
Theatre  Francais  would  be  astonished  to  hear  it ;  that  it  would 
be  one  of  the  fine  plays  of  the  classic  boards;  and  so  delighted 
were  they,  and  so  heartily  did  they  dri«nk  his  health,  that  Mad- 
ame Dezille,  poor  woman,  sighed  and  turned  up  her  eyes  whilst 
she  was  telling  me  about  it.  So  I  spoke  to  Bernard  this 
morning,  and  we  agreed  to  ask  Monsieur  and  Madame  Dezille 
to  come  and  spend  the  evening  with  us,  and  be  merry.  We 
shall  have  some  cider,  with  roasted  chestnuts  and  pancakes, 
and  Monsieur  Dezille  has  promised  to  read  his  comedy.  Per- 
haps," continued  Madame  Bernard,  with  an  insinuating  smile, 
"  Monsieur  would  like  to  hear  the  comedy  ?  I  am  sure  we 
should  be  very  happy — "  But  here  the  gloom  that  suddenly 
gathered  over  Marlow's  features  as  she  spoke,  warned  her 
that  this  was  dangerous  ground,  so,  correcting  herself,  she 
hastily  added,  "  But  I  suppose  Monsieur  does  not  much  care 
about  such  things  ?  " 

It  was  not,  however,  at  her  presumption  that  Marlow  felt 
incensed ;  he  had  too  much  good  sense  to  take  in  ill  part  an 
offer  he  knew  to  be  kindly  meant;  but  his  misanthropical  no- 
tions were  terribly  shocked  to  perceive  that  his  landlady  and 
her  husband — a  locksmith  too — were  going  to  indulge  them- 
selves in  a  party,  one  of  those  dangerous  and  pernicious  amuse- 
ments which  had  ruined  him,  "  and  will  ruin  many  more,"  he 
bitterly  thought,  "  whilst  the  love  of  luxury  and  ostentation 
are  to  be  found  upon  earth.  Ay,"  he  continued  in  a  thought- 
Tul  mood,  "  I  see  it  all  even  now  :  these  people  are  as  credu- 
lous and  simple  as  their  neighbours  are  knowing  and  selfish  ; 
they  will  allow  themselves  to  be  duped  and  flattered ;  the  par- 
ties will  be  renewed,  always  of  course  at  their  expense,  until 
they  have  nothing  more  to  bestow.  They  will  then  be  laughed 
at  for  their  pains ;  the  husband,  disgusted  with  his  comfortless 


224  SEVEN   YEARS. 

home  and  his  wife's  ill  temper,  will  become  a  drunkard;  and 
as  for  the  poor  children,  beggary  and  starvation  await  them." 

"  Will  Monsieur  be  at  home  this  evening?  "  inquired  the 
cheerful  voice  of  Madame  Bernard. 

"  No ;  I  am  going  out  for  the  day,"  abruptly  replied 
Marlow. 

"  Must  I  keep  Monsieur's  fire  in  ?  "  she  continued,  with 
unalterable  good-humour. 

This  time  Marlow  answered  in  a  milder  tone,  that  she 
need  not  take  the  trouble,  as  he  would  not  come  home  till 
late  in  the  evening. 

The  day  was  fine  and  frosty,  so  our  hero  immediately 
sallied  out,  fully  determined  not  to  return  until  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Dezille  and  the  comedy  were  all  fairly  despatched. 
He  took  a  long  walk;  but  as,  after  all,  the  day  was  not  yet 
half  spent,  he  resolved  to  call  upon  the  only  acquaintance  he 
had  formed  in  Paris.  His  friend  lived  far  away  ;  Marlow  did 
not  reach  his  dwelling  till  dusk,  and,  as  ill  luck  would  have 
it,  did  not  find  him  within.  In  a  rather  sulky  mood,  he  now 
resolved  to  go  home  ;  but  as  though  to  increase  his  ill-humour, 
there  came  on  a  thaw,  accouipaaied  with  a  drizzling  raiu,  which 
promised  to  last  for  the  whole  evening.  He  was  unprovid- 
ed with  an  umbrella,  and  could  not  find  a  single  cab  or  omni- 
bus until  he  was  within  five  minutes'  walk  of  the  street  in 
which  he  resided.  It  was  nine  o'clock  when  he  reached  his 
quatrieme  eiage,  thoroughly  tired,  drenched  to  the  skin,  and, 
»bove  all,  highly  irritated  against  his  landlady,  to  whose  un- 
lucky party  he  ascribed  his  mishap. 

As  he  usually  left  his  key  in  Madame  Bernard's  keeping, 
he  was  now  obliged  to  kooek  at  her  door  in  order  to  procure 
it  from  her.  No  sooner  had  he  reached  the  lauding,  than  the 
sounds  of  several  voices  within,  mingling  with  occasional 
bursts  of  laughter  and  applause,  greeted  his  ear.  As  his  sum- 
mons had  evidently  not  been  heard  or  heeded,  Marlow,  with- 
out further  ceremony,  entered  the  kitchen,  and  called  out  for 
Madame  Bernard ;  but  the  good  dame,  who  was  busy  frying 
pancakes  over  the  stove, — which  was  so  contrived  that  any 
such  simple  cookery  could  easily  be  eifected  through  its  means 
— apparently  did  not  hear  him,  for  she  made  no  reply.  Mai-- 
low  impatiently  advanced,  but  paused  vdien  he  reached  the 
glass-door  which  divided  him  from  the  dining-room,  where  all 
the  party  were  assembled  ;  for,  notwithstanding  his  ill-humour, 
be  was  not  quite  averse  to  obtain  a   cursory  view  of  Madame 


SEVEN    YEARS.  225 

Bernard's  guests.     Owing  to  her  accurate  description,  he  soon 
recognized  every  one  of  them. 

With   the   exception    of  Madame  Bernard   herself,  and  of 
her  niece  and  the  childi-en,  who  were  busy  roasting  chestnuts, 
they  were  all  seated  round  the  table,  on  which   stood   an  old- 
fashioned  lamp,  which  shed  its  light  around,  and  enabled  Mar- 
low  to  take  a  full  view  of  their   countenances.     In    the  most 
comfortable  and  easy  chair,  near  the    warm   stove,  sat   his  old 
crabbed   neighbour  of  the   fiddle,  whom   he  had  met   once  or 
twice  on  the  staircase.     He  could  at  first  scarcely  believe  his 
eyes,  and  thought  it  must  be  some  error  of  liis ;  but  a  strange- 
ly fashioned  and  antiquated-looking  instrument,  which  lay  on 
the  table,  fully  confirmed  the  fact.      Madame  Dozille,  who  sat 
next  to  him,  was  as  usual  embroidering   a   purse  ;   whilst  her 
husband,  the  man  of  the  comedy,  with  bent   brow   and  fierce 
aspect,  read  something  from  a  manuscript  before  him ;   and  to 
enforce    or    illustrate    his   meaning,    occasionally    struck    his 
clenched  fist  on   the  table,  making  the   wine-glasses   and  the 
old  fiddle  itself  ring  again.     The  locksmith,  good  man,  listen- 
ed with  much  gravity  and   awe;   and   when   he   succeeded  in 
catching    Monsieur    Dezille's   eye,  and   saw    that   it    was    the 
proper  time  for  him  to  do   so,  applauded   with    all   his  might. 
Marlow  listened  in  the  hopes  of  catching  something  ;  but  what 
between  the  hissing   of  Madame    Bernard's   pan,  and   his  im- 
perfect knowledge    of  French,  he   could   only   distinguish  the 
words  of  "  traitor  " — "perfidious  monarch,  tremble  and  fear," 
&c.,  very  frequently  repeated.      Growing  somewhat  impatient, 
Marlow  was  on  the  point  of  entering  the   room,  at    the   immi- 
nent risk  of  destroying  the  effect  of  the  best  passage  in  Mon- 
sieur Dezille's  play,  when  the  latter,  who   was   closely  eyeing 
Madame  Bernard's  motions,  hastened  to  wind  up    the  critical 
scene  with  a  kind  of  fierce  flourish,  threw   his  manuscript  on 
the   table,  and,  in   the   excitement  of  the  moment,  recklessly 
swallowed  down  a  burning  cake  just  hot   from   the   pan.      His 
kind    hostess    gazed    upon    him    with    alarm;    but    Monsieur 
Dezille  was  perfectly  cool  and  composed ;   it  seemed,  as  Mad- 
ame Bernard  afterwards  observed,  as  though  nothing  could 
have  an  efl'sct  upon  him. 

Thinking  the  moment  favourable,  Marlow  now  opened  the 
door,  and  thrusting  his  head  into  the  room,  sharply  called 
out: 

"  Madame  Bernard." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  My  key." 

10* 


226  SEVEN   YEAKS. 

In  a  moment  Madame  Bernard  was  by  bis  side,  pouring 
fortb  excuses  for  baving  given  Monsieur  tbe  trouble  of  coming 
so  far ;  "  but  then,"  she  added,  apologetically,  "  I  did  not 
think  Monsieur  meant  to  come  home  so  early.  However, 
Monsieur's  fire  will  be  ready  in  two  minutes ;  but  bless  me  ! 
Monsieur  is  wet  to  the  bone.  Will  not  Monsieur  come  in  and 
dry  himself  at  the  stove  ?  " 

Marlow  stiffly  thanked  her  and  refused. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  you  will  take  your  death  of  cold,"  persisted 
Madame  Bernard,  and  she  added  such  pressing  arguments  and 
entreaties,  that  wearied  at  length  witb  her  remonstrances,  and 
Bomewhat  tempted,  too,  by  the  warm  atmosphere  of  the  room, 
he  consented  to  enter,  concluding  that  he  should  only  stay  a 
few  minutes  after  all,  and  took  a  seat  near  the  stove,  upon 
which  Adele  was  now  warming  some  wine  for  him,  this  beiug, 
in  Madame  Bernard's  estimation,  an  excellent  preservative 
against  a  cold.  The  French  of  every  class  possess  an  instinc- 
tive politeness,  which  teaches  them  that  nothing  can  be  more 
disagreeable  to  a  stranger  than  to  excite  too  much  observation. 
Thus  on  this  occasion,  with  whatever  real  curiosity  they  might 
have  been  disposed  to  eye  "  the  proud  Englishman,  who  spoke 
to  nobody,"  Madame  Bernard's  guests  showed  no  token  of  it : 
and  politely  making  room  for  Marlow,  took  as  little  notice  of 
him  as  possible. 

Everything  went  on  as  though  he  had  not  been  there. 
Two  bottles  of  cider  were  brought  out,  and  uncorked  in  great 
ceremony  by  the  locksmith,  whose  health  and  that  of  Madame 
Bernard  was  drunk  by  every  one  present ;  a  compliment  which 
was  duly  acknowledged  and  returned.  The  cider  (it  cost  ten 
sous,  or  fivepence  a  bottle)  was  pronounced  delicious.  Marlow 
was  amongst  the  first  invited  to  test  its  merits,  but  as  he  re- 
fused in  a  very  peremptory  and  morose  tone.  Monsieur  Ber- 
nard had  tact  enough  not  to  use  any  pressing.  The  hot  roast- 
ed chestnuts  were  next  produced  in  a  large  earthen  dish,  and 
every  one  immediately  began  peeling  and  eating  them  with 
relish.  This  is  a  favourite  amusement  in  France,  both  with 
children  and  grown-up  people  amongst  the  poorer  classes,  who 
particularly  enjoy  it  by  the  fire-side  on  cold  winter  evenings. 
Its  general  merit  is,  that  it  does  not  interfere  with  conversa- 
tion ;  and  so  Marlow  soon  found,  for  the  table  having  been  re- 
moved, every  one  drew  round  the  stove,,  and  became  very 
chatty. 

Monsieur  Dezille  was  evidently  the  wit  of  the  party ;  he 
oould   not   open  his  mouth  to  swallow  a  chestnut,  or  utter 


SEVEN   TEAJiS.  227 

a  bon-mot,  but  the  locksmith  was  ready  to  laugh  and  be 
amused,  whilst  Madame  Dezille  admiringly  turned  up  her  eyes. 
Even  old  Monsieur  Ricord's  grim  features  occasionally  relaxed 
into  an  approving  smile;  as  to  the  niece  and  children,  they 
were  in  perfect  ecstacies,  laughing  and  clapping  their  hands 
with  glee  at  everything  they  saw  or  heard.  But  as  he  wit- 
nessed the  mirth  and  enjoyment  of  those  around  him,  Marlow's 
gloom  and  ill-humour  increased  :  he  sat  apart,  scowling  on  the 
company,  or  smiling  with  undisguised  contempt  at  Monsieur 
Dezille's  most  brilliant  witticisms,  and  often  impatiently  glanc- 
ing towards  the  door,  as  though  wishing  for  Madajne  Bernard's 
reappearance.  All  advances  to  conversation  he  scornfully  re- 
pelled. 

Once  or  twice,  however.  Monsieur  Dezille,  who  longed  to 
enter  into  a  literary  controversy  with  him,  adroitly  made  a 
few  preliminary  remarks  on  the  weather,  having  heard  that 
this  was  a  favourite  subject  with  all  Englishmen ;  and  thence 
suddenly  plunged  deep  into  epic  poetry  and  the  art  of  ballad- 
making,  the  latter  of  which  he  placed  far  above  the  former,  as 
being  much  more  interesting,  and  certainly  more  difficult. 

"  And  this  Monsieur  Do-zille  ought  to  know,"  here  put  in 
Madame  Dezille,  looking  up  from  her  purse,  "  for  he  writes 
charming  ballads." 

"  Does  he  write  epics  ?  "  satirically  asked  Marlow. 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  ever  condescended  to  make  the  at- 
tempt," loftily  replied  Monsieur  Dezille,  cracking  a  chestnut. 

"  Poets  are  fools,"  dogmatically  said  Marlow,  "  and  poetry 
is  folly." 

"  Ay,  that  it  is,"  sourly  said  the  owner  of  the  fiddle, 
speaking  for  the  first  time  since  the  entrance  of  Marlow. 

"  How  people  can  lose  their  time,  and  waste  paper  in 
writing  at  all — "  began  Marlow. 

'•  Is  moi-e  than  I,  as  a  man  of  sense,  can  imagine,"  put  in 
Monsieur  Ricord. 

And  so  they  went  on,  Marlow  continuing  his  sharp  attack 
on  authors  aijd  poets  in  general,  in  the  abuse  of  whom  be  was 
materially  assisted  by  Monsieur  Ricord.  who,  though  avoiding 
the  mild  deprecatory  glance  of  Madame  Dezille,  was  twice  as 
fierce  and  pungent  as  himself,  all  his  natural  crabbedness  having 
seemingly  returned.  Monsieur  Dezille  heard  them  both  with 
much  philosophical  composure,  smiled  once  or  twice  upon  them, 
and  as  he  made  no  reply,  soon  silenced  them  on  that  subject 
at  least;  for  Monsieur  Ricord,  who,  when  once  aroused,  waa 
not  easily  quieted,  finding  no  more  to  say  on  poets  and  poetry, 


228  SEVEN   TEARS. 

launched  out  into  the  praises  of  his  fiddle,  the  only  earthly 
object  for  which,  it  was  asserted,  he  felt  any  love  or  sym- 
pathy. 

Now  this  very  fiddle  had  long  been  a  source  of  annoyance 
to  our  hero ;  its  dismal  squeaking  sounds  had  more  than  once 
wakened  him  out  of  his  sweetest  morning  slumbers ;  and  then 
its  owner  had  a  knack  of  harping  upon  one  peculiar  string, 
which  so  jarred  with  Marlow's  delicate  nerves,  that  he  was  not 
at  all  sorry  to  find  an  opportunity  of  retaliating.  Besides, 
why  did  the  Bernards  invite  this  disagreeable  old  man  to  their 
party  ?  Monsieur  Dezille  and  his  comedy  were  already  bad 
enough.  So,  without  further  fear  or  mercy,  he  began  abusing 
the  unfortunate  fiddle;  and,  spite  of  the  groans  and  indignant 
remonsti-ances  of  its  owner,  clearly  showed  it  to  be  ill-made, 
old,  crazy,  and  out  of  tune. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Ricord,  in  a  voice  tremulous  with  pas- 
sion, "  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  if  you  know  what  a  fiddle 
is  ?  " 

"  There  never  was  such  a  detestable  old  thing  as  ihat,'''' 
was  the  only  reply  of  Marlow,  scornfully  pointing  to  the 
fiddle. 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  gentle  Madame  Bernard,  who  was 
now  in  the  room  distributing  the  pancakes,  cast  a  beseeching 
glance  towards  him,  as  though  to  beg  for  his  silence,  and  even 
once  or  twice  hinted  that  his  wine  was  warm  and  his  fire  lit. 
He  eyed  her  sternly;  and  as  his  bile  was  fairly  roused,  he 
suddenly  turned  upon  her,  and  in  a  style  which  the  bitterness 
of  his  feelings  rendered  almost  eloquent,  began  a  pointed 
attack  on  the  extravagance  of  those  persons  who  endeavour  to 
rise  above  their  station  in  life,  by  imitating  the  follies  of  their 
superiors.  As  this  was  a  subject  which  always  inspired  Mar- 
low  with  ready  and  forcible  arguments,  his  words  soon  pro- 
duced a  visible  effect  upon  his  listeners.  Gradually  a  cloud 
came  over  the  honest  and  merry  visage  of  the  locksmith  ;  even 
Madame  Bernard  looked  somewhat  doubtful,  as  though  she 
did  not  feel  quite  certain  of  being  in  the  right;  and  the 
children  instinctively  drew  away  from  the  Monsieur  Anglais, 
whom  the  old  bachelor  still  eyed  with  indignant  feelings. 
Monsieur  Dezille  alone  preserved  an  unalterable  serenity ;  and 
whilst  the  others  allowed  their  cider  to  stand  still,  and  the 
pancakes  to  grow  cold,  he  enjoyed  both  with  unabated  gusto. 

When  Marlow  at  length  came  to  a  pause  in  his  discourse, 
Madame  Bernard  observed — "  I  am  afraid  Monsieur's  fire  will 


SEVEN   TEAES.  229 

be  out  now ;  but  if  Monsieur  will  stay  here  till  I  light  it 
again — " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  intorrnpted  Marlow,  who,  as  he  felt 
conscious  of  having  clamped,  if  not  destroyed,  the  enjoyments 
of  all  present,  experienced  certain  twinges  of  conscience  ;  "  I 
ehall  go  to  bed  directly ;  "  and  taking  the  light  which  his 
hostess  offered  him,  without,  howev'er,  her  usual  cordiality,  he 
retired  to  his  apartment,  endeavouring  to  persuade  himself  that 
he  had  no  reason  to  repent  of  what  he  had  done,  since  he  had 
merely  given  the  Bernards  a  bitter,  though  salutary  lesson. 

When  he  reached  his  room,  he  found  that,  according  to 
Madame  Bernard's  prognostication,  his  fii-e  was  quite  out — 
worse  still,  he  had  forgotten,  in  his  excitement,  to  take  the 
hot-sugared  wine  prepared  for  him  by  his  kind  landlady  ;  his 
clothes  were  not  half  dry ;  he  was  cold,  and  felt  in  a  miserable 
plight.  Somehow  or  other  his  remorse  began  to  revive  :  hw 
certainty  of  having  acted  rightly  was  not  now  quite  so  strong  : 
nay,  he  even  fancied  he  might  be  in  the  wrong. 

"  After  all,"  said  he  abstractedly,  seating  himself  opposite 
the  blank  and  dreary  fire-place,  "what  great  harm  did  those 
honest  people  commit  in  amusing  themselves  cheerfully  and 
innocently  ?  They  were  not  idle ;  for,  save  the  locksmith, 
and  the  little  author,  and  the  old  bachelor,  every  one  was  oc- 
cupied. The  author's  wife  was  embroidering  a  purse;  Madame 
Bernard  had  been  mending  her  husband's  socks  ;  and  I  think 
that  even  the  little  girls  were  busy  with  their  samplers.  All  this 
was  very  right.  Tiicu  how  much,"  continued  Marlow,  "  may 
they  have  spent  ?  Why,  a  franc  or  two  !  Surely  that  is  not  too 
much  for  a  little  of  that  honest  cordial  enjoyment  which  I  so 
wantonly  destroyed  ?  Yes,  I  have  deprived  them  of  their  in- 
nocent mirth  :  I  see  it  all.  Madame,  Bernard  and  her  husband 
are  bitterly  reflecting  on  their  folly,  and  cast  cold  looks  on 
their  guests,  who  begin  to  experience  the  galling  feeling  that 
they  have  ceased  to  be  welcome;  the  very  children  are  sulky 
and  sleepy,  and  every  one  is  thoroughly  miserable  ;  and  this," 
he  exclaimed  aloud,  with  great  warmth — "  this  is  my  doing ! 
Nay,  it  shall  not  be  said  that  when  I  see  an  error  I  do  not 
know  how  to  repair  it.  I  will  go  in  to  them  this  minute,  and 
cheer  and  comfort  them,  if,  indeed,  it  be  still  in  my  power  to 
do  so."  And  so  saying,  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and  with  a 
hasty  stride  proceeded  towards  the  door  ;  but  when  his  hand 
was  on  the  lock,  he  paused.  "  What  excuse  shall  I  give  for 
going  in  again  ?  "  said  he  to  himself.  "  Pshaw  !  did  I  not 
leave  my  hot  wine  behind  me,  and  is  not  my  fire  out  ?  '    he 


280  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

added  witli  a  shiver;  and  witliout  further  delay  he  opened  his 
door,  and  advanced  towards  iLat  of  the  Bernards,  from  which 
he  was  only  divided  by  the  landing.  He  had  not,  however, 
gone  a  step,  before  he  paused  with  sudden  surprise.  Surely 
it  was  an  error?  But  no;  his  ear  did  not  deceive  him  :  the 
merry  sound  of  a  fiddle  was  proceeding  from  the  apartment 
within.  It  so  chanced  that,  on  coming  out  a  few  minute :)  be- 
fore, Marlow  had  left  the  outer  door  of  Madame  Bernard's 
kitchen  half  open,  as  he  now  perceived  by  the  streak  of  light 
which  lit  up  the  landing.  Impelled  by  strong  curiosity,  ho 
approached  the  door,  and  without  entering,  peeped  in.  Owing 
to  the  glass  door,  he  could  partly  discern  what  was  going  on  in 
the  second  room. 

To  his  indignant  astonishment,  the  individuals  whom  he 
had  left,  according  to  his  belief,  in  a  state  of  desponding  gloom 
and  melancholy,  were  now  evidently  in  high  glee,  and  enjoying 
themselves  to  the  best  of  their  power.  The  old  bachelor,  who 
seemed  quite  merry,  was  scraping  away  on  his  fiddle  with  in- 
dignant vehemence,  as  though  to  clear  it  from  Marlow's  ca- 
lumnious aspersions;  Monsieur  Dezille  was  lustily  singing  one 
of  his  own  songs  to  its  accompaniment,  whilst  the  locksmith 
merrily  beat  time  on  the  table,  and  the  children  and  the  niece 
danced  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  The  melancholy 
Madame  Dezille  herself  looked  happy  for  once  :  Madame  Ber- 
nard only  looked  as  she  ever  did  look — the  most  cheerful  and 
contented  of  human  beings.  To  crown  the  whole,  Marlow 
distinctly  recognised  in  the  black  mug  which  amicably  stood 
between  the  old  bachelor  and  Monsieur  Dezille,  the  identical 
one  into  which  his  hot-sugared  wine  had  been  poured.  His 
interference  was  evidently  quite  unnecessary  to  restore  a  good 
feeling  amongst  all  present.  However  contradictory  it  may 
appear,  Marlow  was  by  no  means  delighted  at  this  unexpected 
result,  but  retired  to  rest  in  high  dudgeon  with  himself,  his 
landlady,  and  the  whole  world. 

When  he  awoke  the  next  morning,  his  natural  good  sense 
restored  him  to  a  better  feeling.  He  perceived  the  folly  and 
unrea'^onableness  of  his  expectations.  Why  should  others 
deprive  themselves  of  innocent  enjoyments  to  please  or  indulge 
his  misanthropic  whims  ?  "  Surely,"  he  added  with  a  sigh, 
"  this  world  is  often  sad  enough  for  many  of  us ;  let  a  few  at 
least  find  some  pleasure  in  it." 

When  Madame  Bernard,  therefore,  came  to  light  his  fire 
and  prepare  his  breakfast,  he  received  her  quite  cheerfully  . 
and  after   making  a  few  general  remarks,  candidly   expressed 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  231 

his  regret  at  having  said  anything  on  the  preceding  evening 
that  might  have  damped  the  enjoyments  of  herself  and  her 
gnests. 

With  much  simplicity  and  earnestness,  Madame  Bernard 
assured  him  he  need  not  trouble  himself  on  that  account ;  that 
he  had  not  at  all  destroyed  their  pleasure ;  and  indeed  that 
they  had  never  been  merrier  than  after  he  was  gone. 

Marlow  was  disconcerted  for  a  moment,  but  he  soon  rallied  : 
and  being  determined  to  do  his  duty  to  the  end,  continued  hia 
discourse,  and  very  clearly  proved  to  his  landlady  that  both 
she  and  her  husband  could  not  possibly  do  a  wiser  thing  than 
to  enjoy  themselves  occasionally  with  their  friends. 

Madame  Bernard,  who  perhaps  knew  all  this  as  well  as 
he  did,  and,  maybe,  too,  a  good  deal  better,  heard  him  very 
patiently,  and  when  he  had  done,  merely  observed — "Why, 
sir,  as  my  husband  has  to  work  hard  all  the  week,  and  is  not 
very  strong,  it  is  only  fair  he  should  get  a  bit  of  amusement 
now  and  then." 

"  Very  right,"  approvingly  replied  Marlow;  "but  might 
you  not  select  your  guests  more  judiciously?  Now,  that 
Monsieur  Dezille  and  his  comedy  seemed  to  be  rather  absiird." 

"  Well,  sir,  we  are  ignorant  people,  that  do  not  understand 
much  of  these  matters;  but  Joseph  says  he  likes  to  hear 
Monsieur  Dezille  talk,  because,  as  he  knows  more  than  him- 
self, he  can  always  gather  soiuething  useful  from  him.  Then 
he  and  his  wife  are  rather  nice  people,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
sir,  rather  poor,  though  too  proud  to  own  it.  Yet  as  I  knew 
that  Madame  Dezille  had  had  no  fire  these  last  three  days,  cold 
as  they  have  been,  1  asked  her  to  come  in  to  teach  one  of  the 
girls  how  to  embroider  purses,  which  she,  poor  soul,  very  will- 
ingly did,  and  warmed  herself  at  the  same  time.  Then  I 
said  how  glad  Bernard  would  be  to  hear  her  husband's  comedj^ 
So  he  came  too  ;  and  as  I  thought  he  sometimes  went  without 
his  supper,  I  made  a  few  pancakes,  and  Bernard  got  a  bottle 
or  two  of  cider.  It  did  not  cost  much  after  all — only  two 
francs — and  it  made  us  all  glad  and  merry,  and  they  ue\  er 
suspected  anything." 

Though  he  had  always  thought  his  landlady  a  simple,  good- 
natured  sort  of  woman,  Marlow  had  by  no  means  been  pre- 
pared for  the  delicacy  of  feeling  this  last  trait  betrayed.  For 
a  while  he  remained  silent,  but  determined  to  make  another 
objection.  He  observed — "  But  what  motive  could  induce  you 
to  invite  that  cross  old  man  and  his  abominable  violin  '? " 

"  Ah  sir,"  reproachfully  exclaimed  Madame  Bernard,  "  how 


232  SEVEN    YEARS. 

Borry  I  was  when  you  abused  that  violin  so  !  He  values  it 
above  anything  else  ;  and  no  wonder  too,  for  it  belonged  to  his 
only  brother,  who  died  many  years  ago  ;  and  he  often  talks  of 
that  brother,  and  says,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  bow  beautifully 
he  played  upon  that  very  instrument;  and  indeed  he  seems 
to  think  it  is  the  only  violin  upon  earth;  but  that  is  only 
because  it  was  his  brother's.  I  can  assure  you.  Monsieur,  that 
he  is  not  so  crabbed  as  he  seems.  He  is  a  tender-hearted 
creature.  I  have  looked  into  his  room,  and  actually  seen  him 
sobbing,  as  if  his  heart  were  like  to  break,  over  that  poor  vio- 
lin. Wliat  an  affectionate  remembrance  he  must  have  of  his 
brother  !  " 

"  Well,  if  such  is  the  case,  I  am  really  sorry  to  have  ever 
said  a  word  against  it,"  replied  Marlow,  rather  moved ;   "  but 
I  thought  this  old  gentleman  was  no  favourite  of  yours,  and  in 
deed  he  seems  to  be  cross  and  surly  enough." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Madame  Bernard,  in  a  grave  and  some- 
what penitent  tone,  "  we  should  never  judge  by  appearances, 
for  he  is  not  half  so  cross  as  T  thought  him,  though  I  should 
never  have  known  it  but  for  Madame  Dezille  ;  and  this  is  one 
of  the  very  things  which,  though  I  did  not  find  it  out  till  before 
yesterday,  made  me  like  her  still  more.  Would  you  believe 
it,  sir,  both  she  and  her  husband  have,  for  the  whole  winter, 
been  attending  on  that  old  man,  who  is  almost  always  laid  up 
with  the  gout,  and  is  no  friend  or  relation  of  theirs  ?  And 
they  say  that,  with  all  his  crossness,  he  is  very  kind,  and 
wanted  to  do  something  for  them  out  of  pure  gratitude  ;  but 
seeing  that  he  was  almost  as  poor  as  themselves,  they  refused, 
and  that  was  what  made  him  so  ill-tempered  with  Monsieur 
Dezille  last  night,  though  I  believe  they  were  friends  again 
long  before  they  parted.  And  you  now  see,  sir,  how  it  was  we 
could  not  do  less  than  invite  him  also." 

As  Marlow  had  nothing  to  reply,  and  did  not  seem  inclined 
for  further  conversation,  Madame  Bernard  soon  left  him  to  his 
own  reflections,  little  suspecting  that  it  was  her  discourse  which 
caused  this  deep  fit  of  musing.  "  Well,"  thought  he,  when  he 
was  alone,  "  how  little  I  knew  of  all  the  genuine  kindness, 
charity,  and  feeling  which  lay  concealed  under  the  homely  as- 
pect of  those  worthy  people,  whose  innocent  enjoyment  I  en- 
deavoured to  destroy.  Now  that  I  think  better  of  it,  I  no 
longer  wonder  at  their  cheerful,  happy  faces.  But  how  pure 
and  blessed,"  he  added  with  a  sigh,  "  is  that  dower  of  a  con- 
tented spirit — the  art  of  enjoyment- — since  it  can  shed  such 
genuine  delight  over  what  were  otherwise  insipid  and  flat,  and 


SEVEIT    YKAK8.  233 

invest  an  old  fiddle,  a  bottle  of  cider,  and  a  few  chestnuts  and 
pancakes,  with  more  real  pleasure  than  is  to  be  found  in  these 
splendid  entertainments  where  guests  only  bring  with  them  the 
weariness  and  ennui  of  worldly  minds  !  " 

Frank  Marlow  was  a  cured  man.  We  will  not  assert  that 
it  was  exclusively  Madame  Bernard's  party,  and  the  thoughts 
it  awakened,  which  wrought  a  reformation  in  his  mhid.  He 
was  already  tired  of  inactivity,  and  a  few  letters  from  a  friend 
in  EuD-land  had  contributed  to  arouse  him  from  his  morbid 
lethargy.  He  saw  that  all  along  it  had  been  himself,  not  the 
world,  which  was  to  blame — that  the  earth  may  become  a 
scene  of  gloom  or  gaiety,  misery  or  happiness,  just  as  we  use 
its  bounties.  In  less  than  three  weeks  he  announced  to  his 
landlady  his  intention  of  returning  home.  She  heard  him  with 
regret  :  and  as  he  had  in  the  mean  while  effected  a  reconcilia- 
tion with  Monsieur  Dezille  and  the  owner  of  the  violin,  every- 
body was  truly  sorry  to  part  from  him.  Mai-low  himself  felt 
some  emotion  when  the  hour  came ;  but  Eiighmd,  which  was 
before  him,  and  the  hope  of  retrieving  his  fallen  fortunes,  soon 
banished  the  transient  feeling. 

He  brought  enei'gy  and  perseverance  to  his  new  task,  and 
in  a  few  years  was  in  as  prosperous  circumstances  as  ever.  All 
his  former  extravagance  seemed  to  have  vanished ;  he  did  not, 
however,  fall  into  the  contrary  extreme,  but  always  entertained 
his  friends  in  a  nu^llller  suitable  to  his  station  in  life  ;  still  they 
frequently  heard  him  observe,  that  the  most  pleasant  party  he 
had  ever  seen  had  only  cost  one  shilling  and  eightpence ; 
"  though  to  be  sure,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  "  what  was  wanting 
in  good  cheer,  was  amply  made  up  by  kind  hearts,  contented 
spirits,  and  the  genuine  art  of  enjoyment." 

Should  the  reader  feel  any  wish  to  learn  the  fate  of  the 
Bernards  and  their  neighbours,  we  can  only  inform  him  that 
they  are  still  residing  in  the  same  house.  Monsieur  Drzille's 
comedy  has  not  yet  been  acted,  but  it  continues,  with  old  Mon- 
sieur ilicord's  violin,  to  form  the  delight  of  the  whole  landing. 
Upon  the  whole,  they  are  much  in  the  same  state  as  when 
Frank  Marlow  saw  them ;  neither  richer  nor  poorer,  but  aa 
merry  and  good-humoured  as  ever. 


284  SEVEN   TEAKS. 


THE  LITTLE  DANCmG-MASTER. 

PoLYDORE  Jasmin  was,  as  he  said  himself,  "  a  professor  of 
the  Terpsiehorean  art  ;  "  in  plainer  terms,  a  danciug-master. 
Being  a  short-legged,  dumpy  little  man,  nature  did  not  seem 
to  have  intended  him  for  any  extraordinary  feats  of  agility  ; 
but  an  irresistible  vocation  had  enabled  him  to  overcome  every 
physical  obstacle.  As  he  was  a  married  man,  and  the  father  oi 
seven  children,  he  remained  poor  in  spite  of  the  almost  super- 
natural industry  with  which  he  applied  himself  to  his  art  both 
day  and  night.  Instead  of  owning  a  handsome  and  fashionably 
situated  salon  de  danse,  he  was  allowed  to  waste  his  talents  in 
a  damp  cellnr-like  room,  looking  on  the  yard  of  a  dingy  house 
in  the  Hue  St.  Denis,  where  he  daily  revealed  the  mysteries  of 
the  light  muse  to  the  smart  shopmen  and  pretty  grisettes  of  the 
neighbourhood. 

Still,  Monsieur  Jasmin  was  a  contented,  and,  even  a  happy 
man:  the  lightness  and  buoyancy  of  his  pz'ofession  seemed  to 
have  passed  into  his  heart.  His  manners,  however,  were  very 
grave  and  dignified  ;  and  when  he  danced,  he  became  so  solemn 
that  his  pupils,  like  th;^  courtiers  of  the  Grand  Monarque  on  a 
similar  occasion,  remained  struck  with  awe  at  the  imposing 
sight.  To  say  the  trutli,  M.  Jasmin  had  a  respect  for  dancing; 
he  looked  upon  it  as  a  very  grave  affair,  and  could  not  bear  to 
hear  it  lightly  spoken  of,  or  turned  into  ridicule.  If  anything 
could  tend  to  increase  M.  Jasmin's  natural  equanimity  of  tem- 
per, it  must  have  been  the  high  opinion  he  entertained  of  his 
art,  his  own  person,  and  his  family.  Madame  Polydore  Jasmin, 
according  to  him,  possessed  the  gift  of  eternal  youth;  at  least 
he  solemnly  declared — and  he  believed  it — that  she  had  not 
altered  in  the  least  since  the  day  of  their  first  meeting,  when 
her  coal  black  eyes,  rosy  cheeks,  and  pleasant  smile  first  won 
his  tender  heart.  Others  averred  that  cares  and  anxiety  had 
rendered  the  poor  woman  pale  and  thin,  and  that  she  was  only 
the  shadow  of  her  former  self;  but  of  this  he  saw  and  knew 
nothing,  and  his  love  for  his  wife  remained  unabated.  She  was 
a  good,  simple-hearted  woman,  well  deserving  of  afi'ection,  and 
entii-ely  devoted  to  her  family  :  her  love  and  veneration  for  her 
husband  were  unbounded  :  she  entertained,  moreover,  the 
deepest  respect  for  dancing,  and  looked  upon  M.  Jasmin  as  the 


SEVEN    YEARS.  235 

high  priest  of  that  mysterious  art.  The  children  of  this  wor- 
thy couple  were  like  their  parents — contented,  good-humoured, 
and  simple-hearted  :  their  education  was  very  carefully  attended 
to  ;  for  there  had  not  been  danced  a  pas  in  France  since  the 
days  of  Louis  XIV.  with  which  they  were  not  thoroughly 
accjuainted. 

Amongst  the  few  acqaaintances  of  M.  and  Madame  Jas- 
min, who  were  rather  shy  and  reserved,  was  one  of  their  neigh- 
bours, M.  Bourreux,  a  disagreeable,  satirical  old  man,  who 
bad  no  children,  was  thought  to  be  in  easy  circumstances,  con- 
tinually talked  about  making  his  will,  and  seemed  privileged 
to  say  whatever  he  pleased,  without  giving  offence  to  any  of 
the  families  which  he  daily  visited — teasing  the  children,  an- 
noying the  parents,  and  turning  the  household  arrangements 
into  ridicule,  during  the  whole  time  of  his  stay.  On  a  fine 
summer  evening  this  amiable  individual  condesceiKled  to  pay 
M.  Jasmin  a  visit.  To  the  dancing-master's  surprise,  he  was 
unusually  gracious.  The  high  polish  of  Madame  Jasmin's 
bees'-waxed  floors  seemed  to  transport  him  with  admiration  : 
by  an  adroit  transition  he  contrived  to  connect  the  subject  with 
M.  Jasmin's  proficiency  in  his  art;  and  he  was  so  eloquent  on 
both  topics,  that  the  heart  of  the  dancing-master's  wife  swelled 
with  pride,  whilst  equally  gratifying  feelings  agitated  her  hus- 
band. In  his  sudden  fit  of  amiability,  M.  Bourreux  even  at- 
temi)ted  to  pat  the  heads  of  the  children,  and  say  a  few  kind 
words,  but  they  all  drew  away  with  instinctive  mistrust. 
"When  his  stay  had  been  somewhat  prolonged,  M.  Bourreux 
rose  to  depart;  but  as  though  suddenly  recollecting  himself, 
he  turned  towards  his  host,  and  with  a  bland  smile  observed, 
"  My  dear  Monsieur  Jasmin,  allow  me  to  congratulate  you 
before  I  go;   I  am  indeed  delighted." 

M.  Jasmin  opened  his  eyes  very  wide,  and  seemed  be- 
wildered ;  his  wife  looked  at  him  as  though  for  an  explanation. 
M.  Bourreux  continued  :  "  It  is  perhaps  indiscreet  in  me  to 
mention  this  so  early  ;  but  I  really  could  not  command  my 
feelinjis." 

The  dancing-master  and  his  wife  exchanged  glances : 
"  What  could  this  mean  ?  " 

"  What  !  "  exclaimed  the  visitor ;  "  can  you  be  unac- 
quainted with  an  event  concerning  you  so  nearly  ?  Nay, 
then,  let  me  have  the  pleasure — "  And  without  finishing  the 
sentence,  he  drew  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket,  and  handed  it 
with  a  smile  to  M.  Jasmin.  The  dancing-master  mechanically 
glanced  over  the  paragraph  pointed  out  by  M,  Bourreux;  but 


236  SEVEN   TEARS. 

scarcely  liad  he  read  a  few  lines,  when  he  became  very  pale, 
and  ?ank  down  on  a  seat. 

"  What    is   the  matter,   Polydore  ? "    cried    the  alarmed 
Madame  Jasmin. 

"  'Tis  only  the  effect  of  joy,"  coolly  remarked  M.  Bour- 
reux  ;   "  he  will  soon  come  round." 

iiiit  instead  of  coming  round,  M.  Jasmin  betrayed  increas« 
ing  emotion;  his  little  grey  eyes  twinkled  with  tears;  and 
mournfully  shaking  hih  head,  he  exclaimed  in  a  broken  tone, 
"  Poor  fellow  !  I  taught  him  how  to  dance  :  is  it  now  come 
to  this  ?  "  and  with  another  shake  of  the  head,  expressive  of 
the  deepest  melancholy,  he  allowed  the  paper  to  fall  to  the 
ground.  Madame  Jasmin  hastily  picked  it  up,  looked  over 
the  paragraph  which  had  so  affected  her  husband,  and  fairly 
bui-st  into  tears,  whilst  M.  Bourreux  eyed  theiu  both  with  un- 
disguised contempt.  Not  to  keep  the  reader  in  suspense,  we 
will  state  that  the  paper  so  officiously  produced  by  M.  Bour- 
reux announced  the  death  of  Jacques  Jasmiu,  merchant  of 
New  Orleans,  where  he  had  died  of  the  yellow  fever,  on  the 
eve  of  returning  to  his  native  country  with  a  large  fortune. 
As  the  deceased  was  a  cousin  of  M.  Jasmin,  of  whom  he  had 
not  heard  for  several  years,  the  golden  consequences  of  this 
event  chiefly  struck  M.  Bourreux,  who,  when  be  saw  the  pal- 
try light  in  which  his  friends  beheld  it,  began  to  look  upon 
theui  as  more  shallow  and  foolish  beings  than  he  had  till  then 
thought  them  to  be.  M.  and  Madame  Jasmin  were  in  the 
mean  wliile  relieving  their  grief  by  enumerating,  as  is  usual  in 
Buch  cases,  the  manifold  virtues  of  the  deceased. 

"  So  good-teuipered  !  "  exclaimed  Madame. 

"  So  willing  to  learn  too  !  "  observed  her  husband. 

"  'J'he  newspaper  says  he  died  immensely  rich,"  urged  M. 
Bourreux. 

"  He  deserved  it,"  warmly  cried  M.  Jasmin.  "  Poor  lad  ! 
when  he  went  away,  ten  years  back,  to  seek  his  fortune,  '  Trust 
me,  cousiii  Jasmiu,'  says  he,  '  I  shall  make  my  way  ;  and  hon- 
estly too,'  he  added  proudly ;  for  he  was  proud,  poor  Jacques 
was." 

"  Ay,  and  don't  you  recollect  how,  when  you  slipped  the 
piece  of  gold  into  his  little  trunk,  he  pressed  your  hand,  and 
cuuld  not  speak "? "  observed  Madame  Jasmiu,  wiping  her 
eyes. 

"  I  declare,"  replied  her  husband  with  surprise,  "  I  had 
forgotten  all  about  that.  Well,  he  was  welcome  to  it;  but  it 
was  a  loan,  not  a  gift ;  and  indeed,  if  ever  his  children  come 


SEVEN    YEAES.  23T 

to  France,  I  shall  remiud  them,  in  a  polite  manner  of  course, 
of  the  debt." 

"  Your  cousin  was  never  married,  and  has  left  no  chil 
dren,"  sharply  said  M.  Bourreus. 

"  Well,  I  might  have  known  that,"  replied  M.  Jasmin ; 
"  for  when  he  was  going  away,  '  Cousin,'  says  he,  '  I  shall 
never  marry  but  a  pretty  lively  Frenchwoman  like  Madame 
Jasmin.'  "  Here  the  daucing-raaster  tenderly  glanced  towards 
his  wife,  who  positively  blushed. 

"  Well,  but  do  you  also  know,"  impatiently  exclaimed  M. 
Bourreux,  "  that  your  cousin  has  left  no  will  ?  " 

"  What  about  it  ?  "  calmly  asked  M.  Jasmin. 

"  What  about  it  ?  "  almost  indignantly  echoed  his  neigh- 
bour ;  "  why,  if  he  died  childless,  and  without  making  a  will, 
does  it  not  follow  that  his  large  fortune — two  millions  of 
francs,  the  newspajjers  say — must  be  divided  amongst  his  re- 
lations V  " 

M.  Jasmin  opened  and  rolled  his  eyes  in  a  manner  which 
showed  that  the  thouii;ht  now  occurred  to  him  for  the  first 
time.  For  awhile  he  seemed  lost  in  thought,  then  incredu- 
lously  exclaimed  it  could  not  be  ;  a  sentiment  in  which  his  wife 
fully  concurred.  On  hearing  this,  M.  Bourreux  becan:ie  in- 
dignant, then  satirical,  and  at  last,  by  a  natural  transition, 
quite  sentimental.  He  begged  of  his  dear  frie;;ds  to  believe 
him — what  interest  had  he  in  deceiviusjf  them  ?  The  dancing;- 
master  and  his  wife  at  length  allowed  themselves  to  be  con- 
vinced;  and  after  giving  a  few  more  tears  to  the  memory  of 
Jacques,  they  agreed  that  the  intelligence  must  be  true.  M. 
Bourreux  having  thus  accomplished  his  errand,  departed, 
leaving  them  to  their  own  retiections.  These  were  dismal 
enough  ;  and  what  with  their  grief  for  the  death  of  Jacques 
Jasmin,  and  their  joy  of  becoujing  at  once  so  rich,  the  wm-thy 
couple  spent,  upon  the  whole,  a  rather  miserable  evening. 

By  the  next  morning  they  were  more  composed,  and  had 
settled  how  to  act.  The  whole  family  immediately  went  into 
mourning,  for  what  less  could  be  done  to  honour  the  memory  of 
a  mau  who  left  them  a  fortune  ?  Besides  this,  M.  Jasmin  had 
to  write  to  his  Norman  cousin,  M.  Legros,  who  was  the  only 
other  heir  of  the  deceased.  The  next  and  still  more  impor- 
tant step,  was  to  remove  from  their  present  "  low  neighbour- 
hood, to  a  more  convenient  residence."  So  at  least  said 
Madame  Jasmin,  who  had  a  secret  taste  for  gra}ideur. 

"  And  Monsieur  Jasmin's  pupils  '?  "  objected  some  prudent 
aeighbouis. 


238  SEVEN    YEAJRS. 

Madame  Jasmin  assumed  a  remote  look,  and  hinted  that 
her  husband  had  thoughts  of  giving  up  teaching.  "  He  thinks 
it  fair  to  beginners,"  she  said  kindly,  "  and  though  he  may  be 
induced  to  take  a  few  pupils,  it  will  be  more  for  his  own 
amusement  than  for  profit." 

The  prudent  neighbours  withdrew  in  high  dudgeon.  "  Oh  ! 
that  was  it,  was  it  ?  the  Jasmins  were  getting  too  grand  for 
the  Eue  St.  Denis.     Very  well,  very  well,  time  would  show." 

But  Madame  Jasmin  was  reckless,  ambition  had  invaded 
her  heart,  and  for  once  that  eager  passion  held  sovereign  em- 
pire in  that  hitherto  humble  region.  A  foshionable  apartment 
in  the  Chaussee  d'Antin  was  found  and  at  once  taken  posses- 
sion of.  A  few  hundred  francs,  the  careful  savings  of  years, 
were  lavi.shly  spent  on  the  necessary  changes  of  furniture. 
"  The  rent  was  horribly  dear,"  Madame  Jasmin  confessed,  but 
why  deny  it  ?  she  took  secret  pleasure  in  its  dearness, — there 
is  a  comfort  which  the  simple  and  ignorant  do  not  suspect  in 
the  dearness  of  things.  "  It  is  dear,"  there  is  the  pity,  "  but 
I  can  actually  squander  all  that  money,"  there  is  the  comfort ; 
the  soothina;  thoug-ht. 

This  fashionable  apartment  nominally  consisted  in  four 
rooms,  but  was  really  all  salon^  every  other  convenience  being 
sacrificed  to  that  one  room.  The  kitchen  was  a  square  hole, 
where  daylight  had  never  penetrated  ;  the  dining-room  could 
hold  only  about  four  full-grown  persons  at  a  time ;  and*  al- 
though the  salon  or  drawing-room  was  handsome  and  well-pro- 
portioned, it  unfortunately  happened  that  the  only  spot  in 
which  the  sofa  could  possibly  be  put,  was  precisely  against  the 
only  door  that  led  into  the  bed- room.  This  door,  which  would 
otherwise  have  spoiled  the  symmetry  of  the  room,  was  supposed 
to  be  there  incognito,  and  was  papered  over  like  the  rest  of  the 
walls,  in  order  to  keep  up  the  delusion  ;  but  as  the  bed-room, 
like  the  kitchen,  had  no  window,  the  architect  had  humanely 
caused  a  few  panes  of  glass  to  be  inserted  into  the  higliest 
portion  of  the  door  already  mentioned ;  so  that,  with  a  little 
complaisance  on  the  part  of  visitors,  they  might  be  supposed 
to  be  out  of  view  altogether. 

After  a  long  consultation,  M.  and  Madame  Jasmin  agreed 
that  the  sofa  must  be  put  against  the  door,  and  that,  as  the 
glass  panes  fortunately  opened  and  shut  like  a  real  window, 
the  aperture  should  serve  to  introduce  them  into  their  sleeping 
apartment.  It  is  true  it  was  somewhat  narrow;  but,  as  M. 
Jasmin  wisely  observed,  "  you  had  only  to  step  upon  the  sofa, 
pass  your  head  through  the  opening,  and  you  were  sure  to  come 


SEVEN    YEAES.  239 

down,  most  probably  on  the  bed,  and  without  being  more  than 
slightly  grazed  at  the  utmost."  Notwithstanding  these  advan- 
tages, the  dancing-master  and  his  wife  had  not  been  three  days 
in  their  new  apartment  before  they  were  sick  of  it. 

"I  declare,"  piteously  exclaimed  Madame  on  the  third 
morning,  "  that  I  can  bear  this  no  longer.  To  get  in  and  out 
of  a  bed-room  in  that  fashion,  and  a  dozen  times  a  day,  is 
enough  to  exhaust  one." 

""  We  shall  get  accustomed  to  it  in  time,"  was  Monsieur 
Jasmin's  comforting  reflection.  He  was  a  bright-minded  little 
man,  and  looked  at  the  rosy  side  of  things. 

"  And  I  say  that  I  cannot  bear  it,"  reiterated  the  lady 
with  some  asperity,  and  as  she  felt  really  fatigued,  she  sat 
down  on  a  chair.      Monsieur  Jasmin  looked  perplexed. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "  he  asked,  giving  his  wife  a  dubi- 
ous look. 

"  I  really  do  not  know,"  she  replied,  dismally  ;  "  my  mind 
and  my  cookery  are  alike  bewildered  with  that  blacli  kitchen  ; 
and  if  the  seven  children  must  be  locked  up  in  the  dining- 
room  for  fear  of  soiling  the  drawing-room  paper,  I  really 
think  we  might  throw  them  in  the  Seine  at  once." 

Monsieur  Jasmin  was  too  kind  and  indulgent  not  to  feel 
more  pity  than  resentment  for  this  little  burst  of  temper. 

''  My  dear,"  he  said,  with  mild  gravity,   "  it  was  your  sug- 
gestion to  luck  them  up." 

"  Monsieur  Jasmin,"  impatiently  interrupted  his  wife, 
"  are  you  or  are  you  not  a  i  icli  man  '?  If  you  are,  let  us  have 
a  better  place  to  live  in  than  this.  If  you  are  not,  let  us  go 
back  to  the  Rue  St.  Denis." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Monsieur  Jasmin,  still  mildly,  but  with  a 
great  increase  of  gravity,  "  I  really  do  not  understand  you.  I 
cannot  and  I  will  not  go  back  to  the  Rue  St.  Denis.  The  pupils  I 
had  there  have  not  chosen  to  follow  me  here  ;  it  is  not  my  place 
to  return  to  them.  We  are  virtually  separated.  With  regard 
to  your  suggestion  of  taking  a  larger  apartment,  I  should  have 
much  pleasure  in  acceding  to  it,  but  for  one  or  two  tiifiing  ob- 
jections :  we  are,  as  you  know,  rather  short  of  money,  and 
though  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  a  vast  fortune  will  come  iu 
to  us  with  the  rapidity  usual  in  such  cases,  I  need  not  tell 
you,  my  love,  tliat  it  has  not  come  yet." 

Monsieur  Jasmin  spoke  with  a  solemnity  which  sti'uck  re- 
pentance in  the  gentle  breast  of  Maiuune  Jasmin.  Tears  start- 
ed to  her  eyes,  and  being  an  impulsive  little  woman,  she  rose 
and   threw  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  Polydore,  whom  she 


240  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

embraced  penitently.  Monsieur  Jasmin  had  a  soft  heart,  and 
that  dignified  composure,  which  he  made  a  point  of  preserving, 
was  forsaking  him  fast,  when  a  violent  ring  at  the  bell  made 
the  affectionate  little  couple  start  rather  abruptly. 

"  There,  my  dear,"  said  Monsieur  Jasmin,  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  "  compose  yourself,  that  ring  brings  good  news." 

He  went  and  opened. 

Before  him  stood  a  short  thick-set  man  in  a  great  coat  and 
comforter,  and  with  an  enormous  carpet  bag  in  his  right 
hand  ;  behind  the  short  man  rose  a  tall  and  thin  lady,  who 
looked  strung  with  parcels  and  baskets,  and  behind  her  again 
appeared  two  round,  dumpy,  burly  boys,  each  carrying  a 
band-box. 

Monsieur  Jasmin  opened  his  mouth  and  eyes,  and  could 
not  speak.  He  had  recognised  his  Norman  cousin.  Monsieur 
Legros ;  the  tall  lady  must  be  Madame  Legros,  and  the  two 
boys,  Monsieur  Legros's  two  sous  ;  the  extent  of  the  forth- 
coming calamity  bewildered  him. 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,"  said  Monsieur  Legros,  answering 
a  question  Monsieur  Jasmin  had  not  put.  "  Come  in  Alex- 
andrine, come  in,  boys." 

And  they  actually  entered  the  dining  room,  reckless  of 
the  fearful  way  in  which  they  filled  the  place. 

Monsieur  Legros  sat  down,  took  off  his  hat  and  comforter, 
wiped  his  foreb.ead,  and  having  informed  his  wife  and  sons 
to  make  themselves  at  home,  he  turned  to  his  cousin  Polydore, 
and  winking  shrewdly,  he  laid  his  forefinger  on  the  side  of  his 
nose,  and  emphatically  said,  "Well."' 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Jasmin,  watching  with  an- 
guish the  proceedings  of  Madame  Legros,  who  was  slowly  un- 
stringing her  parcels. 

"  You  do  not  understand !  "  echoed  Monsieur  Legros ; 
"  why,  sir,  I  mean  what  news  about  the  business  that  biings 
us  here  ?  " 

"  None  as  yet,"  answered  Monsieur  Jasmin. 

"None,"  echoed  M.  Legros  witli  a  frown,  and  as  thou-h 
he  strongly  suspected  his  cousin  of  having  fraudulently  ab- 
stracted the  two  millions  for  his  own  benefit.  "  Well,  do  you 
know,"  he  continued,  with  a  look  meant  to  be  particularly 
cutting  in  case  M.  Jasmin  was  guilty — "  do  you  know,  I  think 
this  very  strange." 

"  To  say  the  truth,  so  do  I,"  ingenuously  replied  the 
dancing-master. 

M.  Legros   coughed  doubtfully  and  in  a  manner  to  snow 


SEVEN    YEARS.  241 

that,  for  the  present,  he  would  not  decide  on  so  grave  an 
affair ;  but  that  he  would,  nevertheless,  keep  his  eye  on 
Jasmin. 

"  In  the  mean  while,"  he  added,  following  aloud  his  train 
of  thought,  "  1-et  us  make  ourselves  at  home.  I  knew  that 
living  in  hotels  is  horribly  dear,"  pursued  M.  Legros,  taking 
oft~  his  great  coat,  "  so  I  have  resolved  to  give  you,  cousin 
Jasmin,  a  proof  of  my  friendship  by  boarding  and  lodging 
with  you." 

"  We  have  very  little  room,"  feebly  began  M.  Jasmin. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  do  not  mention  it,  no  apologies.  All 
will  do  excellently  well  ;  Madame  I^egros  and  I  can  sleep 
here,"  said  he,  rising  and  looking  into  the  salon,  "  the  two 
boys  will  do  admirably  in  your  kitchen,  wherever  it  is.  A 
few  mattresses,  feather  beds,  sheets,  and  blankets  are  all  we 
require.  Ah  !  Madame  Jasmin,  how  do  you  do?"  he  blandly 
added,  as  that  timid  lady,  who  had  taken  refuge  in  the  kitchen, 
now  appeared  with  the  seven  young  Jasmins  in  the  rear ; 
"  allow  me  to  introduce  my  wife,  Madame  Legros.  You  did 
not  expect  that  petite  surprise,"  he  added,  with  a  knowing 
wink. 

Madame  Jasmin  confessed  faintly  tl;at  she  did  not. 

"  Never  mind,  cousine,  it  comes  all  the  pleasanter.  You 
are,  I  have  no  doubt,  an  excellent  cook  ;  the  boys — look  up, 
Adolphe,  look  u[i,  Auguste — and  your  children  will  be  friends 
in  no  time,  and  Jasmin,  Madame  Legros,  and  T,  shall  go  out 
sight-seeing,  for  it  is  Madame  Ijcgros's  Hrst  visit  to  the 
capital." 

Madame  Jasmin  looked  at  her  Inisband,  and  Monsieur 
Jasmin  looked  at  her,  and  the  kind-hearted,  simple-minded 
little  couple,  unable  to  frame  an  ungracious,  inhospitable  re- 
fusal, made  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain,  and  liade  their  Norman 
cousins  welcome. 

We  will  not  attempt  to  descrilte  the  sufferings  M.  Jasmin 
and  his  family  had  to  endure  during  the  first  week  of  the  stay 
of  their  relatives.  Matters  went  on,  however,  as  M.  Ijcgros 
had  predicted.  The  unfortunate  Madame  Jasmin  cooked  from 
morning  till  night ;  the  children  agreed  or  quarrelled  as  their 
fancy  led  them  ;  and  whichever  they  did,  always  made  such  a 
fearful  noise,  that  the  lodger  who  resided  underneath  offered 
M.  Jasmin  a  certain  sum  on  condition  of  his  removing  instasiily, 
which,  from  a  sense  of  dignity,  he  refused  to  do.  lUit  the 
woist  of  it  was,  that  the  luckless  dancing-muster  was  com- 
pelled to  show  his  cousins  about,  not  only  over  all  Paris,  but 
11 


242  SEVEN    YEAES. 

also  over  every  portion  of  the  surrounding  ct.nntry  that  had 
ever  possessed  the  least  celebrity.  M.  and  Madame  Legroa 
were  determined  to  make  the  best  of  their  stay.  As  though 
to  increase  M.  Jasmin's  deep  mortification,  no  tidings  whatever 
could  be  had  of  Jacques  Jasmin's  fortune,  a  circumstance 
which  caused  M.  Legros  to  hint,  in  a  dark  manner,  that  he 
strongly  suspected  the  newspaper  paiagraph  of  being  entirely 
groundless,  and  that  he  was  not  even  far  from  considering  his 
cousin  as  accessory  to  the  fabrication  which  had  been  the  means 
of  involving  him  in  tiavelling  expenses — and  all  in  order  to 
gratify  M.  Jasmin's  selfish  wish  of  enjoying  the  company  of 
himself  and  his  amial)le  family!  M.  Jasmin  protested  such  an 
idea  had  never  even  entered  his  mind  ;  but  this  of  course  only 
increased  M.  Legros's  suspicions.  "  But  look  ye,  sir,"  he  add- 
ed in  a  threatening  tone,  "it  would  be  better  for  you  never 
to  have  made  a  dupe  of  me,  sir  ;  for  I  protest  I  shall  leave 
neither  this  city  nor  this  house,  sir,  until  I  have  ascertained 
the  truth  of  the  whole  aflTair." 

This  was  an  awful  threat,  and  M.  Jasmin  felt  it  in  all  its 
force.  But  the  gracious  virtue  of  hospitality  had  too  deep  a 
root  in  the  dancing-master's  gentle  heart  for  him  to  do  what 
nine  out  of  ten  people  would  have  done  in  his  stead. 

"  No,  he  could  not  bid  his  cousin  leave  his  house,  and  seek 
himself  some  other  home." 

"  I  am  sick  of  my  life  with  them,"  exclaimed  Madame 
Jasmin,  with  a  feeble  burst  of  tears. 

"  My  dear,  I  would  do  anything  to  please  you,"  said  her 
husband,  tenderly,  "  but  think  of  our  social  position  ;  think  of 
my  profession  !  " 

The  honour  of  dancing  was  at  stake.  Madame  Jasmin  felt 
it,  and  provided  herself  with  a  new  dose  of  patience. 

And  so  matters  went  on.  Monsieur  Legros  became  more 
and  more  suspicious,  Madame  Legros  dropped  haughty  hints, 
the  quarrels  of  the  two  young  Legros'  and  the  seven  young 
Jasmins  daily  acquired  a  .more  bitter  and  vindictive  char- 
acter, the  sight-seeing  nearly  wore  M.  Jasmin  off  his  legs,  and 
the  feeding  of  so  many  people  rapidly  emptied  his  pockets,  and 
nothing  was  heard  of  Jacques  Jasmin  and  his  two  millions, 
save  through  the  medium  of  Monsieur  Bourreux.  who  dropped 
in  every  day  to  ask  "  if  the  millions  were  coming '?  "  To  which 
Monsieur  Jasmin  would  mildly  reply,  "  not  yet."  and  Monsieur 
Legros  Avould  snarl  an  angry  "  no."  Monsieur  Bourreux  at  first 
appeared  annoyed  and  disappointed  ;  but  he  soon  grew  recon- 
ciled to  the  circumstance ;  it  even  Sv;emed  to  afford  him  a  pe- 


SEVEN    YEARS.  243 

culiar  sort  of  pleasure,  as  was  evident  by  the  chuckle  of  satis- 
faction with  which  he  alluded  to  it.  One  morning,  when  the 
whole  family  were  at  breakfast  in  the  drawing-room — the  only 
room  which  could  contain  them — M.  Bourreux  made  his  ap- 
pearance at  an  earlier  hour,  and  with  a  more  agreeable  and 
pleasant  look  than  usual.  On  being  asked  to  partake  of  the 
morning  meal,  he  readily  consented ;  and  whilst  Madame  Jas- 
min was'  pouring  him  out  a  cup  of  coffee,  cheerfully  hummed  a 
merry  tune.  M.  Legros  opened  the  conversation  by  asking  if 
there  were  any  news. 

"Why,  yes,  there  are,"  answered  M.  Bourreux,  with  great 
liveliness  ;  "  and  very  good  news  too.  What  do  you  think  now 
of  your  cousin  Jacques  not  being  dead"?" 

"  Not  dead  !  "  echoed  M.  Legros,  laying  down  his  cup  in 
indignant  astonishment ;   "  not  dead  !  " 

"Yes;  excellent,  is  it  not?"  chuckled  M.  Bourreux,  rub- 
bing his  hands.  "But  perhaps  you  don't  believe  it?  Eead 
this,  my  dear  sir — read  this !  "  and  with  tlie  utmost  complais- 
ance he  handed  a  newspaper  to  M.  Legros.  The  paragraph  to 
which  he  drew  his  attention  merely  stated  that  it  was  with  the 
greatest  pleasure  the  editor  announced  to  the  public  that  the 
merchant  of  New  Orleans  whose  demise  had  been  so  deeply 
lamented  a  few  weeks  ago,  was  still  in  the  enjoyment  of  excel- 
lent health,  the  report  having  originated  entirely  through  a 
mistake.  As  M.  Legros,.  read  this  aloud,  M.  Jasmin  had  his 
full  benefit  of  the  intelligence.  It  would  be  difficult  to  state 
exactly  what  the  dancing-master's  feelings  were  :  he  was  rather 
disappointed  at  the  loss  of  a  fortune  ;  but  he  was  still  better 
pleased  to  think  that  Jacques  Jasmin  was  alive,  observing 
aloud,  in  the  simplicity  and  openness  of  his  heart,  that  it  was 
a  great  comfort. 

"  And  do  you  call  that  a  comfort,  sir  ?  "  cried  M.  Legros 
in  a  rage.  "  Do  you  know,  sir,"  he  continued,  scowling  ution 
him  fearfully,  "  that  these  words  would  lead  me  to  suspect  that 
you  have  agents  in  New  Orleans  by  whose  means  you  contrived 
to  spread  this  report?  But  no!  "  he  exclaimed,  checking  him- 
self, "  1  will  not  believe  it ;  nor  will  I  believe  that  Jacques 
Jasmin  is  alive :  it  is  a  moral  impossibility ;  and  as  there  is  no 
name  mentioned  in  this  statement,  I  am  authorised  to  believe 
either  that  it  is  utterly  false — a  scandalous  fabrication — or  that 
it  does  not  in  any  manner  relate  to  my  deceased  cousin." 

"  But  suppose  it  is  true  ?  "  observed  M.  Bourreux. 

"  I  will  suppose  no  such  thing  !"  exclaimed  the  irascible  M. 
Legros. 


244  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

"  Well,  but  it  may  be  true,"  persisted  the  other  ;  "  and  1 
ask  how  you  would  behave  in  case  your  cousin  Jacques  were  tc 
come  home  unexpectedly  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  gravely  replied  M.  Legros,  "  I  should  consider  my- 
self a  deeply  injured  man,  and  require  a  compensation  ;  but 
admitting  that  my  deceased  cousin  could  come  home,  which  I 
consider  impossible,  I  should  think  myself  justified  in  not 
recognising  him,  as  I  have  a  very  faint  recollection  of  his 
person." 

"  Ah,  but  I  remember  him  quite  well,"  here  interposed  M. 
Jasmin  with  a  knowing  look. 

"  I  would  not  recognise  him  on  your  authority,"  hastily 
exclaimed  his  cousin ;  "  indeed  I  should  consider  the  whole 
affair  so  extremely  suspicious,  that  I  would  turn  my  pretended 
cousin  out  of  doors  directly." 

"  A  very  prudent  course  indeed  !  "  observed  M.  Bourreux 
with  a  sneer.  "  But,"  continued  he,  changing  the  conversa- 
tion, "  I  have  more  news  ;  and  an  excellent  joke  they  will 
make  too,"  he  shrewdly  added.  "  You  must  know,  neighbour," 
addressing  M.  Jasmin,  "  that  your  old  lodgings  are  let — you 
would  never  guess  to  whom  ?  Well,  not  to  keep  you  in  sus- 
pense— to  a  dancing-master,  who  has  now  all  your  scholars  ;  so 
you  see  you  are  fairly  in  for  it;"  and  M.  Bourreux  chuckled 
very  merrily  at  the  idea. 

This  was  pouring  oil  on  M.  Legros's  wounded  spirit  :  he 
laughed  very  long  and  very  loud ;  so  did  his  wife  and  his  two 
boys.  Madame  Jasmin  made  a  faint  attempt  to  smile ;  her 
husband,  seeing  that  his  friends  enjoyed  the  joke  so  much, 
thought  it  must  be  a  capital  one,  though  he  could  not  exactly 
see  where  the  point  of  it  lay  :  he  therefore  laughed  as  much  as 
he  could ;  but  his  eyes  glistened,  and  his  lips  quivered,  as  he 
thought  of  his  seven  children,  and  wondered  what  he  should 
do. 

"  Well,"  said  M.  Bourreux,  who  had  finished  his  breakfast 
by  this  time,  "  now  tliat  I  have  made  you  so  merry  and  com- 
fortable, I  think  I  shall  go."  And  away  he  went  with  a  very 
satisfied  air. 

Still,  it  must  be  confessed  that  no  particular  signs  of  mirth 
or  comfort  were  shown  by  the  individuals  whom  he  left  behind 
him.  Madame  Jasmin  had  gone  into  the  kitchen  to  cry  : 
Madame  Leeros  seemed  to  think  that  she  had  been  mortally 
offended  by  her  cousins,  for  she  scarcely  deigned  to  look  upon 
them  ;  her  husband,  who  believed  more  in  the  truth  of  the 
newspaper  paragraph  than  he  chose  to  confess,  was  exceedingly 


SEVEN   YEARS.  245 

snarl isb  and  ill-tempered ;  M.  Jasmin  was  overwhelmed  by 
the  news  of  the  rival  dancing-master  :  a  repjitation  of  twenty 
years'  standing  had  been  overthrown  in  a  moment.  After  an 
hour's  deep  meditation,  M.  Legros  rose,  and  stating  that  he 
was  going  out,  asked  his  wife  to  act  ompany  him ;  in  a  few 
minutes  they  walked  out,  without  requesting,  as  usual,  their 
cousin  to  accompany  them.  M.  Jasmin  was  not  sorry  for  this ; 
for,  to  say  the  truth,  he  wanted  to  speak  to  lais  wife.  When 
they  were  alone,  the  children  being  all  stowed  away  in  ^he 
dining-room,  he  began  pouring  his  sorrows  into  her  faithful 
bosom,  accusing  himself  of  folly,  and  lamenting  his  impru- 
dence. Madame  Jasmin  consoled  him  as  well  as  she  could  : 
"he  had  done  everything  for  the  best,  and  everything  might 
yet  turn  out  well."  M.  Jasmin  was  easily  comforted  ;  he  tried 
to  persuade  himself  matters  were  not  desperate,  and  that  the 
best  thing  he  could  do  would  be  to  see  about  it  directly.  What 
"  seeing  about  it "  meant,  neither  he  nor  his  wife  exactly 
knew  ;  but  it  must  have  been  something  pleasant,  for  it  caused 
them  to  brighten  up  immediately.  In  order  to  effect  this  it 
was  necessary  to  dress  and  go  out :  the  first  of  these  operations 
was  not  half  over  when  a  ring  came  at  the  bell.  Madame  Jas- 
min ascertained,  by  peeping  through  the  keyhole,  that  it  was  a 
stranger.  The  worthy  couple  were  in  a  terrible  dilemma  :  M, 
Jasmin  could  not  take  refuge  in  the  dining-room,  for  tlie  nine 
children  were  there  fighting  as  usual ;  neither  could  he  enter 
the  kitchen  lest  the  grease  off  some  of  the  plates  and  saucepans 
should  contaminate  his  new  suit  of  clothes  ;  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  remain  in  the  salon,  for  there  was  no  other  place  in 
which  to  receive  the  stranger :  in  short,  M.  Jasmin  saw  that 
his  toilet  must  be  finished  in  the  bed-room.  There  was  no 
time  to  lose  ;  so  hastily  catching  up  his  clothes,  he  jumped  upon 
the  sofa,  darted  through  the  window,  and  alighted  safely  on 
the  bed.  Scarcely  was  this  delicate  operation  concluded,  when 
the  stranger  was  ushered  in  by  his  wife. 

"  Is  Monsieur  Jasmin  at  home?"  he  inquired. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  somewdiat  hesitatingly  replied. 

"  Could  I  speak  with  him  1  ' 

"  Oh,  certainly,  in  a  few  minutes,"  answered  INIadame  Jas- 
min, wondering  how^  ever  her  husband  was  to  get  out. 

"  He  is  a  dancing-master,  I  believe  1 "  continued  the  stran- 
ger  ;  and  on  being  answered  in  the  affirmative,  "  Is  he  usually 
moderate  in  his  terms  1 " 

Madame  Jasmin  was  going  to  answer  "  exceednigly  so  ; " 
but  her  husband,  who  had  been  extremely  fidgetty  and  ner- 


246  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

vous  since  the  beginning  of  the  interview,  now  thought  it 
proper  to  interfere.  Standing  on  the  bed,  he  therefore  thrust 
his  head  through  the  window,  and  coughed  gently.  The  stran- 
ger immediately  gave  a  start,  and  looked  up.  "  Good  morn- 
ing, sir,"  affably  said  M.  Jasmin ;  '^  I  believe  you  want  to 
speak  to  me  *?  " 

"  You  are  Monsieur  Jasmin,  then  ?  "  observed  the  stran- 
ger, with  the  greatest  gravity. 
M.  Jasmin  bowed. 

"  And  I  believe  you  are  a  dancing-master  1 " 
"  1  have  that  honour,"  replied  M.  Jasmin  ;  "  but  if  we  are 
to  speak  on  professional  matters,  will  you  allow  me — "    And 
by  an  appropriate  gesture  he  indicated  his  wish  to  come  out. 
"  Oh,  by  all  means  !  "  cried  the  stranger. 
Out  accordingly  in  more  senses  than  one  the  dancing-mas- 
ter did  come,  performing  the  awkward  feat  with  truly  profes- 
sional grace  and  agility  ;  and,  as  he  was  now  quite  dressed, 
looking  very  dignified  indeed. 

The  stranger  did  not  even  smile ;  and  when  M.  Jasmin 
had  taken  a  seat,  resumed  the  conversation  as  though  nothing 
fiad  occurred.  After  several  inquiries,  he  suddenly  asked, 
"  Did  you  not  formerly  reside  in  the  Rue  St.  "Denis  ? " 
When  M.  Jasmin  had  answered  in  the  affirmative,  the  stran- 
ger dryly  observed  he  thought  it  was  a  great  pity  he  had 
ever  left  that  neighbourhood.  This  mysterious  speech  led  the 
dancing-master  to  conclude  that  his  visitor  resided  in  that 
quarter  himself;  and  as,  from  the  nature  of  his  questions,  he 
looked  upon  him  in  the  light  of  a  future  pupil,  he  began  to 
feel  nervously  alive  to  the  danger  of  losing  him  beforehand. 

"  Ah  !  sir,"  said  he,  sadly  shaking  his  head,  "  it  was  indeed 
a  melancholy  event  that  brought  me  here  !  "  And  as  though 
he  had  known  him  for  years,  he  began  relating  to  his  visitor 
how  he  had  learned  the  death  of  Jacques  Jasmin,  and  had  been 
induced  to  remove  to  his  present  lodgings.  "  Poor  fellow," 
he  added  with  glistening  eyes,  "  I  taught  him  how  to  dance  ! — 
poor  Jacques  !  "  But  there  is  yet  hope,"  said  he,  checking  him- 
self; "  yes,  sir,  there  is  yet  hope  :  cousin  Legros  says  he  could 
not  recognise  him,  but  I  am  sure  I  should.  I  have  him  even 
now  in  my  mind's  eye — a  tall,  good-looking  young  man  ;  taller 
and  younger  than  you,  sir,  a  good  bit,  with  darker  hair  too, 
and  more  colour.     Oh,  I  should  know  him  instantly  ! " 

"  Well,"  said  the  stranger  rather  ironically,  "  if  your  cousin 
is  alive,  what  becomes  of  your  fortune '? " 

"  Sir,  I  will  not  think  of  that,"  manfully  replied  M.  Jas- 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  247 

mill ;  "  it  is  his,  not  mine.  I  confess  that  I  shall  feel  sorry  to 
have  ever  heard  of  his  death,  as  this  has  been  the  cause  of  a 
few  disagreeal)le  circumstances;  but  I  shall  feel  still  more 
pleased,  sir,  to  hear  that  he  is  alive.  But  really  there  is  quite 
enough  of  this.  I  believe  you  wished  to  speak  to  me  on  pro- 
fessional matters  :  my  terms  are  very  moderate  "  he  added, 
with  an  insinuating  smile. 

The  stranger  looked  embarrassed.  "  Why,  to  say  the 
truth  " — he  began,  and  then  paused  hesitatingly. 

As  M.  Jasmin  was  wondering  what  this  could  mean,  the 
drawing-room  door  opened,  and  M.  Legros  majestically  stalked 
in.  Without  regarding  the  presence  of  the  stranger,  who,  on 
seeing  him,  discreetly  retired  to  the  other  cud  of  the  room,  he 
indignantly  exclaimed,  "  Well,  sir,  I  am  satisfied  now  ;  I  know 
everything.  Yes,  sir,"  he  fiercely  continued,  "  I  have  been 
making  inquiries,  and  have  actually  learned  that  Jacques  Jas- 
min, or  rather  an  impostor,  taking  the  name  of  my  deceased 
and  respected  relative,  has  been  seen  this  very  morning  in  the 
Eue  St,  Denis  inquiring  after  you  !  " 

"  Thank  God  for  it !  "  fervently  exclaimed  the  dancing- 
master.  "  He  is  then  alive  and  well,  and  Monsieur  Bourreux 
was  right." 

"  Sir,"  said  his  cousin,  with  a  glance  of  withering  con- 
tempt, "  you  are  mad,  wretchedly  insane ;  if  I  had  my  will, 
you  should  be  sent  to  Charenton  [the  Parisian  Bedlam].  If 
you  were  not  so  blind  and  deluded,  I  could  prove  to  you,  as 
clearly  as  two  and  two  make  four,  that  Monsieur  Bourreux's 
intelligence  was  a  vile  calumny  on  the  character  of  our  late 
cousin,  inasmuch  as  it  accused  him  of  the  grossest  inconsist- 
ency— namely,  of  being  dead  at  one  time,  and  actually  alive 
again  in  less  than  two  weeks  afterwards  !  Where  is  the  news- 
paper 1 " 

Whilst  the  eye  of  M.  Legros  was  wandering  about  the  room 
in  search  of  the  paper,  it  chanced  to  alight  on  the  stranger, 
who  was  looking  at  him  very  fixedly.  On  meeting  his  glance, 
M.  Legros  started  back,  and  even  turned  pale ;  but  rapidly 
recovering  his  presence  of  mind,  he  folded  his  arms  upon  his 
breast,  and  in  a  tone  and  attitude  of  defiance,  exclaimed, 
"  Well,  sir,  what  about  it  ?  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  say 
you  are  Jacques  Jasmin,  and  that  I  recognise  you  !  You  are 
mistaken,  sir  ;  I  shall  do  no  such  thing :  the  flict  is,  I  do  not 
recognise  you  !  " 

"  Jacques  !  "  cried  M.  Jasmin,  sinking  down  on  a  chair  in 
the  heiglit  of  his  astonishment. 


248  SEVEN   YEARS. 

"  Oh  !  "  ironically  observed  M.  Legros  ;  "  I  suppose,  sir^ 
yori  recognise  him  :  very  good,  sir.  I  have  a  witness,  mind 
you,  who  has  heard  you  say  you  would  ;  so  that  it  is  evidently 
quite  premeditated  !  " 

"  Jacques  !  Jacques  !  can  it  indeed  he  you  %  "  exclaimed 
the  dancing-master,  without  heeding  M.  Legros. 

Jacques  Jasmin — for  the  strange  visitor  was  no  other — 
merely  smiled  in  reply,  and  warmly  shook  his  relative  by  the 
hand.  M.  Polydore  Jasmin,  with  all  his  simple-heartedness, 
was  somewhat  of  a  formalist ;  and  though  his  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears  as  he  gazed  on  the  altered  and  sunburnt  features  of 
his  long-lost  cousin,  he  gravely  folded  him  in  his  arms,  and 
kissed  him  on  each  cheek,  according  to  the  old  French  tasliion, 
which,  though  wearing  away,  is  still  in  use  among  the  middle 
and  lower  classes,  and  all  the  partisans  of  the  old  school. 

"  Very  w^ell,  gentlemen,  very  well,"  indignantly  exclaimed 
M.  Legros,  as  he  witnessed  these  friendly  proceedings  with 
very  ferocious  feelings — "  very  well,  you  might  have  waited 
to  kiss  each  other  until  I  was  gone  !  1  shall  soon  rid  you  of 
my  presence;  but  before  I  go,  you  shall  hear  some  of  imy 
mind.  You,  sir," — to  Jacques — "  I  look  upon  as  a  swindler, 
seeking  to  involve  your  unhappy  relatives  in  expenses  ;  and 
you,  sir," — to  M.  Jasmin — "  are  a  mean  hypocrite.  I  have 
the  honour  to  bid  you  both  good-morning :  my  innocent 
family  shall  no  longer  undergo  the  contamination  of  this 
roof"  With  this  M.  Legros  walked  out  of  the  room  in  a 
very  stately  manner.  Wheli  he  stood  on  the  threshold  of 
the  apartment,  however,  he  turned  liaek  to  inflict  a  last  blow. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  he,  smilingly  addressing  the  danc- 
ing-master, "  I  must  give  you  a  friendly  piece  of  advice  before 
I  go  :  ''  learn  to  dance,  my  dear  sir — learn  to  dance  I  " 

M.  Jasmin  had  heard  himself  called  a  mean  hypocrite ; 
and  being  naturally  good-tempered,  and  inclined  to  make  al- 
lowances for  the  blighted  hopes  of  a  disappointed  heir,  he  had 
borne  this  unjust  treatment  with  the  greatest  equanimity. 
But  there  are  limits  to  endurance  ;  and  when  M.  Legros  ven- 
tured on  making  the  audacious  remark  above  recorded,  M. 
Jasmin  started  to  his  feet  in  a  fit  of  ungovernable  fury,  and 
seized  on  the  object  nearest  to  him,  with  the  firm  intention  of 
throwing  it  at  M.  Legros's  head.  Although  this  object  hap- 
pened to  be  a  large  arin-cliair,  he  lifted  it  up  with  the  greatest 
ease,  and  would  actually  have  accomplished  his  design,  but 
for  the  interference  of  Jacques  Jasmin,  and  the  preci^^itate  re- 
treat of  ]\L  Legros,  who  rushed  down  the  stairs  in  a  state  of 


SEVEN"    YEARS.  249 

great  terror,  calling  out  murder  all  the  way,  and  followed  by 
his  screamina;  wife  and  children.  As  soon  as  M.  Jasmin's 
momentary  anger  had  subsided,  he  felt  very  much  ashamed 
at  having  so  committed  himself.  He  would  even  have  run 
after  M.  Legros,  to  apologise  for  his  inhospitalde  hastiness  ot 
temper,  but  the  terrified  gentleman  was  already  out  of  sight. 
This  made  M.  Jasmin  very  Tuicomfortable.  The  only  reflec- 
tion that  alleviated  his  distress  was,  that  what  he  had  done 
was  merely  in  defence  of  his  art,  and  so  far  excusable.  By 
repeating  this  a  number  of  times,  he  confirmed  himself  in  the 
belief  that  personal  feelings  had  in  no  manner  influenced  his 
conduct,  and  that  his  art  alone  had  been  insulted — an  impres- 
sion which  Jacques  Jasmin  carefully  refrained  from  removing. 
When  the  dancing-master's  mind  had  recovered  its  usual  equa- 
nimity, he  hastened  to  introduce  his  cousin  to  his  wife,  who 
had  rushed  in  from  her  post  behind  the  door  (where  she  had 
been  listening  till  then)  on  hearing  the  altercation  between  M. 
Legros  and  her  husband.  Though  not  quite  so  astonished  as 
M.  Jasmin  liad  expected  her  to  be,  she  was  nevertheless  very 
hysterical,  and  might  even  have  fainted  away,  if  the  continued 
whining  which  proceeded  from  the  dining-room  had  not  re- 
called her  to  the  necessity  of  giving  the  children  a  good  scold- 
ing. Jacques  Jasmin  having,  however,  interceded  for  them, 
they  were  forgiven,  and  at  his  request  allowed  to  enter  the 
drawing-room  immediately. 

We  will  not  dwell  upon  the  manner  in  which  the  day — 
which,  notwithstanding  the  many  disappointments  it  brought 
with  it,  was  truly  one  of  happiness — was  spent  by  the  family 
of  M.  Jasmin,  nor  on  the  long  account  which  Jacques  had  to 
give  of  himself.  His  history  was  simple  enough,  and  will  be 
easily  detailed  in  a  few  words.  The  first  of  the  newspaper 
paragraphs,  which  had  caused  such  a  series  of  mistakes,  turned 
out  to  be  false  in  every  respect.  Jacques  did  not  possess  two 
millions  of  francs  ;  he  had  not  much  more  than  one  ;  worse 
still,  he  was  married— to  a  Frenchwoman,  however — and  was 
the  father  of  several  children,  so  that  all  chance  of  inhci-iting 
his  fortune  was  at  an  end  ;  yet,  strange  to  say,  M.  Polydore 
Jasmin  seemed  quite  happy  on  hearing  this,  and  actually 
rubbed  his  hands  with  glee.  But  the  most  singular  portion 
of  Jacques  Jasmin's  history  was,  that  the  piece  of  gold  which 
he  had  received  from  his  cousin  at  the  epoch  of  their  parting 
had  partly  been,  he  said,  the  means  of  making  his  fortune. 
This  struck  M.  Jasmin  as  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  cir- 
ciimstance^  he  had  ever  heard,  and  made  so  deep  an  impres- 

11* 


250  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

sion  on  his  imagination,  that  for  a  long  time  afterwards  he 
mentioned  it  to  every  one  he  knew  as  a  great  natural  curi- 
osity ;  for,  he  observed,  there  must  have  been  some  virtue  in 
the  gold  :  it  could  not  have  happened  otherwise  ;  so  at  least 
says  Madame  Jasmin. 

As  it  had  never  occurred  to  the  simple-minded  dancing 
master  that  he  had  anything  to  expect  from  his  rich  relative, 
he  felt  somewhat  surprised  when,  on  che  second  day  which 
followed  his  first  visit,  Jacques  Jasmin  hinted  that,  as  he  had 
been  the  involuntary  means  of  causing  him  to  remove  front 
his  old  quarters  to  a  neighbourhood  wholly  unsuited  to  his 
circumstances,  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  provide  him  with  new 
lodgings.  M.  Jasmin  would  not  at  first  hear  of  this  ;  but  he 
at  length  consented,  and  in  a  few  days  he  was  comfortably 
settled"  with  his  femily  in  a  large  and  airy  apartment  in  a  part 
of  the  town  equally  removed  from  the  commercial  Rue  St. 
Denis  and  the  fashionable  Chaussee  d'Antin,  Here  the  danc- 
ing-master rapidly  found  scholars ;  but  as  they  did  not  pay 
him  very  liberally,  he  might  still  have  repented  leaving  the 
Rue  St.  Denis,  if  it  had  not  occurred  to  Madame  Jacques  Jas- 
min, who  turned  out  to  be  a  very  pretty  and  amiable  woman, 
that,  as  her  family  was  rapidly  increasing,  it  would  be  a  pru- 
dent and  economical  plan  to  settle  a  certain  annual  sum  on 
their  cousin,  on  condition  of  his  engaging  to  teach  his  art  to 
their  children,  with  all  the  new  pas  that  might  come  out. 
Her  husband,  who  is  partly  suspected  of  having  suggested  it, 
immediately  submitted  this  plan  to  his  relative,  who,  after 
mature  deliberation  (for  although  he  said  nothing  about  it,  the 
clause  of  the  new  pas  was  to  him  a  great  objection),  adhered 
to  it,  and  foithfully  performed  his  part  of  the  agreement, 
always  being  in  mortal  fear  lest  some  new  pas  should  come 
out  without  his  knowledge,  and  render  him  guilty  of  what  in 
his  eyes  would  have  been  direct  perjury. 

It  was  shortly  after  these  events  that  M.  Jasmin  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  M.  Legros,  in  which,  after  tendering  the  most 
satisfactory  apologies,  he  gave  him  a  detailed  account  of 
Jacques  Jasmin's  marriage,  his  family,  and  what  he  had  done 
for  him  personally.  M.  Legros,  instead  of  being  pacified, 
considered  the  dancing-master's  epistle  as  a  direct  insult  on 
his  feelings.  The  only  answer  he  condescended  to  return  to 
it  was,  that  he  left  Polydore  and  Jacques  Jasmin  to  the  work- 
ings of  their  own  consciences  ;  but  that,  for  his  part,  he  could 
never  forgive  them.  Strange  to  say,  M.  Bourreux  was  glad 
to  hear  of  M.  Jasmin's  good  fortune  :  he  might  have  been  still 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  251 

better  pleased,  perhaps,  had  matters  turned  out  otherwise ; 
but  he  was  pleased.  As  it  has  been  discovered,  in  the 
Rue  St.  Denis,  that  his  only  fortune  consists  in  an  annuity 
which  must  die  with  him,  and  that,  consequently,  he  has  no 
property  to  bequeath,  his  importance  is  very  much  dimin- 
ished ;  but  it  is  pleasant  to  reflect  that  his  temper  is  greatly 
improved. 

The  Jasmin  family  are  happy  and  comfortable.  M.  Jas- 
min has  been  somewhat  troubled  liy  the  polka  mania,  but  he 
is  reconciled  to  it  now.  He  thinks  his  wife  prettier  than  ever, 
and  idolizes  his  children.  Upon  the  whole,  he  may  be  de- 
scribed as  that  human  curiosity — a  happy  and  contented  indi- 
vidual. He  has  entirely  forgotten  that  he  once  thought  him- 
self rich,  though  it  is  said  he  still  remembers  the  miseries  he 
had  to  endure  in  his  fashionable  apartment. 


A   SOIEEE   m  A  PORTER'S   LODGE. 

There  were  porters  formerly  in  Paris,  now  there  are  not. 
The  porter  was  followed  by  the  concierge,  and  to  the  concierge 
has  succeeded  a  nondescript  being,  male  or  female,  for  whom 
there  exists  as  yet  no  appropriate  name.  The  portress  was 
rough,  bearish  and  snappish  ;  she  wore  a  cotton  gown,  and  a 
cotton  kerchief  was  often  set  of  one  side  on  her  head.  The 
concierge  was  more  of  a  bourgeoise,  and  had  a  middle-class 
look  about  her,  but  the  lady  who  has  succeeded  to  both  of 
these  is  different  altogether.  She  is  more  of  what  was  for- 
merly understood  by  the  fallen  word  of  genteel :  she  lives  on 
the  ground-floor  in  an  elegant  apartment  with  sofes  and  arm- 
chairs. She  speaks  to  you  in  exquisite  French,  pure  and  pre- 
cise, and  she  smooths  lier  hands  as  she  talks  ;  she  is  musical 
too,  and  has  a  piano  for  her  children  ;  her  husband  has  a  sol- 
dier like  look,  and  wears  something  like  a  bit  of  red  ribbon  in 
his  button-hole,  but  he  is  not  often  seen.  In  short,  these  are  not 
porters  ;  they  condescend  to  guard  the  gates  of  a  stately  man- 
sion, and  to  answer  inquiries  they  keep  a  chai-woman,  who 
takes  up  the  letters — but  you  must  give  up  all  claim  to  pene- 
tration^ tact,  and  good  breeding,  if  you  attempt  to  mix  up 
these  genteel  decayed  people  with  the  low-bred,  loud-tongued, 
and  thoroughly  vulgar  porters  and  portresses  of  old  times. 


252  SEVEN   TEAES. 

There  are  conservatives  everywhere.  Some  cross  people 
regret  the  old  race.  They  hated  them  whilst  they  had  them, 
but  they  are  gone,  and  they  weep. 

"  They  had  their  virtues,"  they  say,  "  and  at  all  events 
they  were  not  like  these.'''' 

Well,  in  those  good  old  times  there  lived,  a  few  years 
ago,  two  Parisian  porters,  who  already  verged  on  the  con- 
cierges. It  was  agreed  on  all  hands  that  Monsieur  and  Mad- 
ame Bichonnet  were  not  ordinary  porters.  They  resided  in 
the  handsomest  house  of  a  respectable  street  of  Paris  ;  their 
lodge,  situated  on  the  ground-floor,  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
passage,  at  a  convenient  distance  from  the  staircase,  was  large 
and  airy,  and  looked  upon  the  street.  Their  duties,  which 
consisted  in  attending  to  the  door,  and  keeping  the  house 
clean,  were  unusually  light,  and  very  liberally  remunerated — 
considering  that,  like  all  the  members  of  their  worthy  class, 
they  were  lodged  rent  free,  and  kept  by  their  landlord  and 
the  joint  contributions  of  the  lodgers  in  wood  and  candle-light 
all  the  year  round,  without  mentioning  the  presents  they  reg- 
ularly received  on  New- Year's  Day.  In  short,  M.  and  Mad- 
ame Bichonnet  were,  as  the  reader  can  see,  very  comfortable 
people  in  their  way  ;  and  they  might  have  been  perfectly 
happy,  had  not  an  unlucky  spirit  of  ambition  taken  possession 
of  their  hearts,  and  made  them  resolve  to  shine,  no  matter  at 
what  cost.  They  gave  parties  to  which  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood was  invited  ;  and  so  conspicuous  did  they  render  them- 
selves, that  the  lodge  of  the  Bichonnets  became  ere  long  a 
term  synonymous  with  the  focus  of  porter-scandal  and  refine- 
ment. "  Need  we  say  the  envy,  the  ridicule,  the  heart-burnings, 
the  tittle-tattle  they  raised  around  them  1  They  lived  in  hot 
water,  and  enjoyed  it.  "  The  fate  of  genius,  my  love,"  said 
Monsieur  Bichonnet,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  addressing  Mad- 
ame Bichonnet,  "  the  distinguishing  mark  of  our  superiority 
over  the  common  and  vulgar  herd." 

"  I  know  they  all  hate  me,"  murmured  Madame  Bichon- 
net. 

"  Ha,  ha,"  chuckled  Monsieur  Bichonnet,  "  I  like  it ;  they 
hated  Napoleon,  too,  but  he  made  them  quake  !  Let  them — 
let  them  !  " 

For  be  it  said  en  passant,  it  is  quite  an  error  to  suppose 
that  every  one  likes  being  loved.  Love  is  sweet,  but  to  some 
tempers  hatred  is  far  sweeter.  To  Monsieur  Bichonnet  it  was 
an  acknowledgment  of  superiority  :  to  Madame  Bichonnet  it 
was  a  comfortable  soothing  proof  of  the  badness  of  the  world 


SEVEN    TEARS.  253 

and  the  treachery  of  friends  ;  but  it  is  time  to  describe  thia 
remarkal)le  couple. 

Like  many  ilhistrious  individuals,  the  porter  and  his  wife 
did  not,  however,  differ  greatly  from  the  common  race  of 
mortals.  Madame  Bichonnet  was  a  tall,  muscular,  raw-boned 
woman,  whose  florid  complexion  beamed  with  health,  but  who 
was,  nevertheless,  in  a  very  delicate  state  ;  for,  as  she  fre- 
quently assured  her  lodgers  and  friends  in  a  low,  languishing 
tx)ne,  "  she  knew  she  was  in  a  deep  decline,  and  had  already 
given  up  all  worldly  thoughts."  M.  Bichonnet  was  a  thin, 
tan-skinned  little  man,  with  a  bright,  restless,  brown  eye,  and 
a  highly  pragmatical  and  consequential  eye-brow.  He  seldom 
spoke,  but  the  little  he  did  say,  was  all  concerning  his  rank 
and  importr.nce  in  society.  He  had  also  a  few  profound  ideas 
on  politics,  and  "  our  duties  to  our  fellow-mon,"  of  which  he 
occasionally  allowed  his  friends  to  catch  a  glimpse  ;  for  as 
those  ideas  were  so  very  deep,  thoy  could  scarcely  be  said  to 
fathom  them.  Amongst  M.  Bichonnet's  favourite  notions,  was 
the  firm  belief  entertained  by  him,  ever  since  the  year  1830, 
that  Louis  Philippe  had  not  six  months  to  remain  on  the 
throne.  This  assertion,  which  he  made  with  many  mysterious 
nods  and  hints,  had  given  him,  amongst  the  timid  and  prudent 
people  of  the  neighbourhood,  a  reputation  of  carbonarism.  It 
was  even  strongly  suspected  by  some  wise  heads  that  the  con- 
vivial parties  given  in  his  lodge  were  otdy  banquets  offered  to 
republicans  in  disguise.  These  malicious  rumours,  did  not, 
however,  prevent  M.  and  Madame  Bichonnet  from  resolving 
to  have  a  party  on  Twelfth  Night  of  the  year  183-.  Accord- 
ing to  the  usual  custom,  they  were  to  have  a  cake  ;  and  in  the 
earlier  part  of  the  evening  M.  Bichonnet  went  out  to  order  it 
at  the  pastry  cook's  before  the  arrival  of  the  guests,  leaving 
his  wife,  or,  as  he  loved  to  call  her,  his  spouse,  alone  in  the 
lodge,  seated  in  a  soft-cushioned  arm-chair,  opposite  the  fire, 
and  dozing  very  comfortably  ;  for,  under  pretence  of  making 
up  for  her  bad  nights,  Madame  Bichonnet  was  always  dozing. 
She  had  not  been  long  alone  when  her  husband  came  in.  Ap- 
proaching the  fire,  he  ceremoniously  observed,  "  The  night  is 
very  cold,  my  dear  ;  1  must  beg  your  leave  to  keep  on  my 
hat." 

M.  Bichonnet  would  never  have  committed  the  solecism 
of  doing  such  a  thing  without  liis  wife's  permission.  Madame 
Bichonnet  merely  nodded  assent,  and  seemed  to  expect  some- 
thing else  ;  but  as  her  husband  remained  silent,  she  said,  aftei 
a  panse,  "  And  the  cake,  my  dear  1 " 


254  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

"  The  cake  is  in  the  oven,  my  love.  I  looked  at  it  and 
fastened  my  eye  on  the  pastry-cook.  '  That  is  the  cake, — 
mind,  that  is  the  one,'  I  said,  '  that  and  no  other.'  He  laid 
his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  1  kept  my  eye  upon  him.  I  know 
he  hated  me  just  then  ;  but — but  1  rather  like  that." 

And  Mousier  Bichonnet  stood  on  the  rug  with  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  in  the  memorable  attitude. 

"  Of  course  it  is  a  good  cake  1 "  said  Madame  Bichonnet, 
opening  one  eye. 

"  My  love !  "  said  Monsieur  Bichonnet,  with  mild  re- 
proach ;  then  he  added  softly  and  impressively  :  "  it  is  a 
large,  golden-coloured  cake." 

"•  Perhaps  I  shnll  never  live  to  eat  another,"  mournfully 
sighed  Madame  Bichonnet.  "  Will  it  be  here  soon  ?  "  she 
added,  after  a  pause. 

"  In  less  than  half  an  hour,  my  dear."     Another  pause. 

"  Will  it  be  quite  hot  1  "  asked  Madame,  opening  her  half- 
shut  eyes. 

"  Quite  hot." 

The  portress  muttered  something  which  sounded  like  a 
hum  of  satisfaction,  and  remained  silent.  In  less  than  half  an 
hour  the  cake  arrived,  carried  by  the  pastry  cook's  boy. 

Monsieur  Bichonnet  stood  and  ftistened  his  mesmeric  eye 
on  the  lad,  who  bore  the  look  like  a  genuine  gamin,  that  is  to 
say,  most  impudently.  The  porter  was  convinced  of  the 
identity  of  the  cake,  and  with  a  lofty  wave  of  the  hand  dis- 
missed the  boy. 

"  Go,  lad,"  he  said. 

"  Au  revoir,  Pere  Bichonnet,"  was  the  audacious  reply. 

The  boy  was  gone,  but  Monsieur  Bichonnet  stood  rooted 
to  the  rug,  aghast  and  mute ;  a  pastry  cook's  boy  had  called 
him  "  Pere  Bichonnet."  At  length  he  recovered,  and  smiled 
at  the  youthful  sally,  like  a  magnanimous  Newfoundland  who 
disdains  to  resent  the  bark  of  a  young  cur. 

"  The  cake  will  get  cold,"  rather  snappishly  said  Madame 
Bichonnet. 

"  My  dear,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  her  husband,  with  a 
start. 

At  once  he  placed  the  cake  between  two  earthen  dishes 
which  had  been  kept  warming  for  this  purpose ;  and,  as  ^lad- 
ame  Bichonnet  observed,  "  it  really  looked  like  a  cake  you 
might  wish  to  eat  on  your  death-bed."  Some  time  elapsed, 
and  though  it  was  past  seven,  none  of  the  guests  an  ived. 
Madame  Bichonnet,  who  sat  near  the  cake,  and  smelt  it,  be- 


SEVEN    TEAKS.  255 

came  very  impatient  at  this  mireasonable  delay,  and  in  a  quer 
ulous  tone  inquired  "  if  they  were  coming  ?  "  Her  husband 
answered  he  did  not  know,  but  that  he  strongly  suspected  M. 
and  Madame  Miroiton,  with  their  young  ladies, — he  scorned 
the  vulgar  expression  of  daughters, — would  soon  make  their 
appearance ;  upon  which  Madame  Bichonnet  observed,  with  a 
significant  smile,  they  had  done  well  to  invite  M,  Tourneur 
to  come. 

Monsieur  and  Madame  Bichonnet  had  both  a  gentle  pas- 
sion :  they  were  fond  of  match-making.  Monsieur  Bichdnnet 
said  "  he  felt  it  was  a  duty  he  owed  to  his  fellow-men."  Mad- 
ame Bichonnet  never  assigned  any  reason  for  her  liking,  but 
when  good-natured  people  repeated  to  her  what  other  good- 
natured  people  had  said  :  "  that  she  liked  the  wedding-dinner," 
Madame  Bichonnet  turned  up  her  eyes  and  clasped  her  hands, 
and  asked  "  how  she  could  think  of  such  things,  with  one  foot 
in  the  grave  1  "  We  will  not  say  what  was  or  was  not  the 
truth,  but  this  we  can  safely  declare :  the  Bichonnets  never 
gave  a  party  without  having  at  the  same  time  some  matri- 
monial campaign  in  view. 

On  this  occasion  the  person  for  whose  conjugal  felicity 
they  felt  so  livt'ly  an  interest  was  a  young  shoemaker,  M.  Tour- 
neur, who  had  recently  settled  in  the  street,  and  whose  hand- 
some shop  was  precisely  opposite  the  window  of  the  lodge. 
Antoine  Tourneur  was  not  yet  a  rich  man,  but  his  business 
promised  well  ;  his  character  was  irreproachable,  and  though 
he  could  not  exactly  be  termed  handsome,  good  temper  was 
written  on  his  frank  open  features.  He  had,  moreover,  that 
smart,  tidy  look  so  characteristic  of  the  Parisian  journeyman. 
Indeed,  Madame  Bichonnet  averred,  that  of  all  the  shoemakers 
who  met  at  Montmartre  on  St.  Crispin's  day — their  yearly 
festival — he  undoubtedly  cut  the  most  gallant  figure ;  and 
that  the  dark  mustache  which  he  wore,  notwithstanding  his 
peaceful  avocation,  was  perfectly  irresistible.  It  is  true  tliat, 
though  possessed  of  those  advantages,  Antoine  Tourneur  had 
not  expressed  to  Madame  Bichonnet  the  least  wish  for  a  wife ; 
but  as  she  concluded  that  he  wanted  one,  she  resolved  to  pro- 
vide him  with  one  without  delay.  Fortunately  for  her  pur- 
pose, she  found  two  ladies — in  the  street  too — who  seemed 
quite  willing  to  enter  into  her  views.  Perhaps  it  will  be 
objected  that  one  lady  was  enough  for  the  purpose^  ;  l)ut  the 
prudent  portress  was  of  another  opinion  ;  she  thought  that  if 
one  did  not  suit,  the  other  might ;  and  that,  in  all  cases,  they 
would  set  one  another  off.     This  had  been  her  plan  hitherto ; 


266  SEVEN    YEAES. 

and,  to  say  the  truth,  she  had  vast  experience  in  those  mat 
ters. 

The  eldest  of  those  Ladies — both  of  whom  were  ^ve\\  known 
to  Tourneur,  whose  customers  they  were — was  Mademoiselle 
'Jrsule,  the  staymaker,  who  lived  next  door  to  him.  She  was, 
according  to  her  own  assertion,  twenty -five  years  of  age  ;  but 
her  features — without  speaking  of  common  report,  which  said 
ten — assigned  her  at  least  six  or  seven  more  summers.  She 
was  thin  and  withered-looking ;  she  dressed  very  richly  and 
tastily  ;  and  there  was  certainly  nothing  vulgar  about  her. 
It  was  reported  that  she  had  money  in  the  bank  ;  and  this,  as 
Mademoiselle  Miroiton,  her  rival,  spitefully  observed,  was 
her  only  attraction.  It  was  seemingly  a  powerful  one,  for  it 
had  enabled  her  to  refuse  several  good  offers  of  marriage. 
Mademoiselle  Miroiton,  who  was  a  dressmaker,  and  a  daugh- 
ter of  one  of  the  neighbouring  porters,  had  no  money  like 
Mademoiselle  Ursule  ;  but  she  was  a  good  figure,  had  a  bril- 
liant complexion,  a  tolerable  quantity  of  glossy  dark  hair,  and 
a  sparkling,  though  rather  scornful,  black  eye ;  so  that,  as 
Madame  Bichonnet  wisely  concluded,  if  Antoine  Tourneur 
liked  beauty.  Mademoiselle  Miroiton  would  do  remarkably 
well  for  him  ;  whereas,  if  he  preferred  wealth,  Mademoiselle 
Ursule  would  be  quite  the  thing.  Having  first  delicately 
sounded  the  two  ladies,  and  found  them  very  favourably  dis- 
posed, she  next  invited  them  to  come  and  spend  with  her 
"  The  Evening  of  the  Kings,"  as  Twelfth  Night  is  termed,  in- 
timating to  them  that  Antoine  Tourneur  would  be  there,  with 
only  a  few  friends. 

Just  as  Madame  Bichonnet's  patience  was  exhausted,  and 
she  oliserved  very  snappishly  that  the  cake  was  quite  ruined, 
a  knock  at  the  door  announced  the  arrival  of  her  expected 
guests. 

Monsieur  Bichonnet  stretched  his  arm,  and  pulled  a  brown 
string  like  a  bell-rope,  and  wdiich — as  all  visitors  of  Paris 
Know — is  a  sort  of  magic  string,  wherewith,  without  so  much 
as  stirring  from  his  chair — the  French  porter  raises  the  lock 
of  the  ponderous  street  door,  and  lets  or  keeps  you  in  at  his 
pleasure.  On  this  occasion  Monsieur  Bichonnet  w^as  magnani- 
mous ;  he  admitted  the  visitors  :  they  came  in  rushing,  gig- 
gling, screaming.  Madame  Bichonnet  turned  pale.  All  the 
Miroitons  had  come.  An  Olympic  frown  gathered  on  the 
smooth  brow  of  Monsieur  Bichonnet,  and  he  drew  himself 
up  rather  stiffly.     The  Miroitons  had  taken  a  liberty.     They 


SEVEN    TEAES.  257 

had   brought  all   the  young  Miroitons,   who    had   not   been 
asked. 

The  glass-door  of  the  lodge  flew  open  ;  in  rushed  two 
romping  Miroitons  of  the  luale  sex,  and  of  the  ages  of  seven 
and  nine.  A  prim  little  girl  of  twelve  followed  ;  then  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  Miroiton,  a  corpulent  couple,  and  lastly, 
Mademoiselle  Miroiton,  who  laughed  rather  loudly  at  some- 
thing Antoine  Tourneur  was  whispering  in  her  ear. 

"  Ah  !  how  good  you  are  to  have  all  come,"  said  Madame 
Bichonnct,  faintly,  for  she  thought  of  the  size  of  her  cake. 

Madame  Miroiton  had  a  sharp  temper. 

"  No,  we  did  not  all  come,"  she  said  shortly,  "  poor  Jules 
is  always  sacrificed," — a  stabbing  look  at  her  husband, — '•'  he 
must  stay  and  mind  the  lodge,  poor  lamb." 

"  I  really  do  not  see  why  he  should,"  was  the  very  unex- 
pected rejoinder  of  Monsieur  Miroiton.  "  My  lodgers  have 
not  behaved  so  generously  on  New-Year's  Day,  that  the 
pleasures  of  any  member  of  my  fomily  should  be  sacrificed  to 
their  convenience,"  added  Monsieur  Miroiton,  looking  round 
impressively.  "  Adolphe,  go  and  fetch  your  brother  ;  tell  him 
to  rake  out  the  fire,  and  extinguish  the  lamp,  and  come  direct- 
ly. Last  New-Year's  Day  brought  me  in  five  francs  from 
the  first-floor,  three  from  the  second,  ten  and  fifty  centimes 
from  the  rest  of  the  house, — total,  eighteen  francs  fifty  cen- 
times. I  put  it  to  the  company  present,  Is  the  liberty  of  my 
family  to  be  sacrificed  for  that  miserable  sum  1  Adolphe,  go 
and  fetch  your  brother." 

Monsieur  Miroiton  sat  down  smilingly.  Now  the  irrita- 
ting part  of  this  speech  was,  that  it  held  forth  hopes  impossible 
to  realize,  and  that  Monsieur  Miroiton  knew  it. 

"  Sit  down,  Adolphe,"  said  Madame  INIiroiton,  to  her 
youngest  son.  "  Your  brother  Jules  would  not  come  noio 
after  the  affi'ont  that  has  been  put  upon  his  feelings."  She 
darted  another  angry  look  at  her  husband,  and  sat  down  too. 

This  little  family-squabble  was  barely  over,  when  a  gentle 
lady -like  tap  was  heard  at  the  glass  window  of  the  lodge,  and 
Mademoiselle  Ursule  appeared.  She  was,  as  usual,  very  ele- 
gantly attired. 

"  What  airs  she  gives  herself  "  whispered  Mademoiselle 
Miroiton  to  her  sister,  who  replied  with  a  prim  smile  of  as- 
sent. 

"  I  hope  Mademoiselle  Ursule  is  quite  well,"  patronizingly 
observed  Monsieur  Bichonnet. 


258  SEVEN    YEARS. 

"  Quite  well,"  was  the  stately  reply,  "  I  thank  you.  It  is 
cool  this  evening." 

Mademoiselle  Ursule  sat  down,  carelessly  displayed  a  deli- 
cate cambric  pocket-handkerchief,  and  meaning  just  then  to  be 
highly  disdainful,  she  superciliously  applied  a  scent-bottle  to 
an  aristocratically-shaped  nose,  and  frigidly  answered  every 
remark  dropped  by  either  of  her  hosts.  Matters  would  not 
have  gone  on  very  comfortably  had  not  the  remaining  guests 
gradually  appeared.  Madame  Bichonnet  had  asked  them  to 
fill  up  the  vacant  spaces  of  her  tableau,  now  quite  thronged 
with  the  young  Miroitons.  These  individuals  were  two  lady's 
maids  who  resided  in  the  house,  and  a  mysterious  melancholy- 
looking  young  man,  who  lived  nobody  knew  how,  and  always 
sang  comic  songs  wherever  he  wa.s  invited. 

When  they  were  all  seated,  and  there  was  some  talk  of 
cutting  up  the  cake,  Madame  Bichonnet  perceived  a  circum- 
stance she  had  hitherto  overlooked  :  there  were  in  all  1-3  indi- 
viduals present.  Now  amongst  Madame  Bichonnet's  weak- 
nesses was  the  vulgar  belief,  that  when  13  persons  met  one  of 
them  must  certainly  die  within  the  year.  On  noticing  this 
ominous  fact,  she  therefore  gave  a  very  dismal  groan,  and  in- 
timated to  her  friends  they  need  not  have  any  fear,  as  she  was 
certainly  the  doomed  one.  Everybody  immediately  sympa- 
thised with  her,  with  the  exception  of  Madame  Miroiton,  who, 
being  a  strong-minded  woman,  loudly  asserted  that  this  was  a 
weakness  she  must  overcome,  and  that  she  would  not  encour- 
age her  in  it  by  sending  h<nTie  one  of  her  children.  Antoine 
Tourneur  gallantly  offered  to  absent  himself,  but  Madame 
Bichonnet  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"  Bichonnet." 

"  My  love." 

"  Go  and  ask  Rosine  to  join  us." 

"  At  once,  my  dear,"  replied  the  obedient  Bichonnet,  with 
whom  to  hear  was  to  obey. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  moaning  for  1 "  stoutly  said  Madame 
Miroiton. 

Madame  Bichonnet  looked  at  the  cake  meant  for  nine  peo- 
ple, and  destined  to  be  eaten  by  fourteen,  and  remembering 
the  greedy  young  Miroitons,  she  thought  she  had  a  right  to 
moan  ;  but  she  desperately  replied  that  nothing  ailed  her,  and 
submitted  to  fate. 

"  Madame  Bichonnet,"  here  put  in  Mademoiselle  L'rsule, 
"  may  I  ask  who  is  tlie  person  ?if .  Bichonnet  has  gone  to 
fetch  ?     Of  course  the  person  is  reputable ;  but  still,  my  dear 


SEVEN    TEARS.  259 

Madame  Bichonnet,  there  are  limits,  social  limits,  ^Yhich  every 
one  does  not  feel  inclined  to  transgress,  and  I  should  like  to 
know  who  that  Rosine  is.     Not  a  cook,  I  hope  !  " 

"  Oh  !  dear  no,"  cried  Madame  Bichonnet,  seeming  shock- 
ed at  the  bare  idea,     "  I  have  a  house  of  cooks  !  " 

"  So  coarse  !  "  said  the  lady's  maids. 

"  Rosine  is  a  bonnet-maker,"  said  Madame  Bichonnet ; 
"  she  lives  in  one  of  the  attics  ;  a  very  nice  girl,  whom  I  like 
to  encourage." 

The  entrance  of  Rosine,  who  came  in  shrinkingly  behind 
M.  Bichonnet,  precluded  any  further  comments. 

Although  Ruse  was  "  a  nice  girl,"  her  entrance  into  the 
lodge  was  witnessed  Avitli  anything  but  pleasure  by  Made- 
moiselle Ursule  and  tlie  daughter  of  the  Miroitons.  The  for- 
mer, especially,  was  highly  indignant :  the  idea  of  associating 
with  a  bonnet-maker  seemed  to  her  perfectly  preposterous  ; 
and,  notwithstanding  the  beseeching  and  timid  glance  which 
the  young  girl  cast  towards  her,  Mademoiselle  Ursule  imme- 
diately set  her  down  for  an  artful,  designing  creature,  and  ap- 
plied her  scentrbottle  to  her  nose  with  great  contempt. 
Mademoiselle  Miroiton  was  at  first  equally  annoyed  ;  but  on 
noticing  the  paleness  of  the  new-comer,  who  was,  moreover,  in 
deep  mourning,  she  immediately  made  room  for  her  near  her- 
self, concluding  that  the  contrast  would  greatly  enhance  the 
brilliancy  of  her  own  complexion,  and  the  freshness  of  her 
attire. 

The  first  impression  which  Rosine's  appearance  was  cal- 
culated to  pr(iduce,  was  not  indeed  to  her  advantage.  But 
though  she  might  at  first  be  thought  plain,  few  persons  who 
examined  her  closely  thought  so  long.  Her  features  were  not 
remarkably  regular,  but  she  had  a  profusion  of  tair  silken 
tresses,  which  beamed  like  gold  beneath  her  black  crape  cap, 
eyes  of  a  deep  azure  blue,  dark  eyebrows  and  eyelashes,  and 
a  sweet  smile  and  pleasant  voice,  which  rendered  her  at  times 
quite  fascinating,  notwithstanding  the  languid  and  sickly  ex- 
pression her  features  had  contracted  during  a  life  of  privation 
and  poverty.  Having  lost  ht>r  mother  a  few  months  back, 
she  was  now  an  orphan  ;  and  as  she  was  not  a  native  of  Paris, 
she  had  remained  wholly  friendless  and  alone  in  the  great  city. 
Fortunately,  however,  she  found  some  employment  in  the 
house  of  a  great  milliner,  who  lived  in  the  street ;  and  al- 
though she  had  to  toil  almost  constantly,  in  order  to  earn 
enough  for  her  support,  she  was  never  heard  to  repine  or  tc 
complain. 


260  SEVEN    YEAES. 

A  gentle,  complying  temper,  that  made  her  reluctant  to 
utter  the  unpleasant  word  "  no,"  had,  spite  her  secret  reluc- 
tance, induced  her  to  accede  to  M.  Bichoainet's  request,  and  to 
join  the  party  in  the  lodge.  When  the  guests  had  resumed 
their  seats,  and  the  lodge  door  had  once  more  enclosed  them 
all  in  an  atmosphere  of  warmth  and  comfort,  Antoine  Tour- 
neur,  looking  round  him,  said  : 

"  There  are  two  bottles  of  champagne  here :  I  volunteer 
that  we  should  uncork  them." 

"  Wait !  "  anxiously  cried  Madame  Bichonnet,  too  anxious 
to  remember  her  politeness,  "  wait,  Monsieur  Tourneur,  if 
you  please.     Bichonnet !  " 

"  My  love,"  replied  Monsieur. 

"  Take  the  key  of  the  first-floor  lodgers,  if  you  please." 

"  I  have  it,  my  dear,"  said  Monsieur  Bichojmet,  taking 
down  one  of  the  keys  hanging  on  a  row  of  pegs. 

"  Open  the  front  door,"  pursued  Madame,  "  enter  the 
dining-room,  open  the  buftet ;  in  the  right-hand  corner  you 
will  find  champagne  glasses  ;  take  fourteen  and  bring  them 
down  if  you  please,  Bichonnet." 

"  Yes,  my  love." 

Monsieur  Bichonnet  took  a  light  and  departed  on  his  er- 
rand ;  but  he  was  scarcely  gone  when  he  returned  empty- 
handed,  and  lofty  indignation  beaming  on  his  expressive  coun- 
tenance. 

"■  The  dining-room  door  was  locked  !  "  he  said,  impressively 
rolling  his  eye  round  on  the  company. 

"  Locked  !  "  said  JNIadame  Bichonnet,  sitting  bolt  upright. 

"  Locked  !  "  repeated  Monsieur,  and  he  sat  down. 

"  Can  we  not  manage  with  tumblers  1  "  suggested  Antoine 
Tourneur. 

"  Impossible,  Monsieur,"  said  Madame  Bichonnet,  "  drink 
champagne  out  of  tumblers  '  no,  no,  I  hope  we  are  not  come 
to  that  yet.  But  what  amazes  me,  is  the  insolence  and  dupli- 
city of  these  people.  What  do  they  leave  the  key  of  the 
outer  door  for  if  they  lock  the  inner  one  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  trap,  an  insulting  trap,"  said  Monsieur  Bichonnet. 

The  Miroitons  agreed  that  it  was  abominable,  but  suggest- 
ed no  remedy  to  this  lamentable  state  of  things.  One  of  the 
lady's  maids,  seeing  that  there  was  some  chance  of  the  cham- 
pagne r'^maining  in  the  bottles,  for  want  of  the  all-important 
glasses,  at  length  hinted  that  she  might  perhaps  get  them  from 
their  cook,  provided  an  invitation  accompanied  the  request. 
The  prospect  of  a  fifteenth  partaker  of  the  cake  almost  upset 


SEVEN    YEARS,  261 

Madame  Bichonnet's  equanimity,  and  Mademoiselle  Ursule 
so  solemnly  protested  that  she  would  walk  out  if  a  vulgar 
cook  came  in,  that  the  lady's  maid  declared  she  would  get 
the  glasses  without  the  invitation,  on  which  errand  she  accord- 
ingly departed,  and  within  ten  minutes  she  returned,  bringing 
champagne  glasses  for  the  grown-up  members  of  the  com- 
pany, and  liquor  glasses  for  the  junior  Miroitons. 

"  I  see  through  it,"  audibly  whispered  Madame  Miroiton 
to  her  husband.  Madame  Bichonnet  ignored  the  remark,  and 
Mademoiselle  Ursule,  restored  to  good-humour  by  the  non-ap- 
pearance of  the  cook,  despatclied  one  of  the  young  Miroitons 
for  three  dozens  of  those  Ilheims  biscuits,  without  which 
orthodox  drinkers  assert  that  champagne  cannot  be  drunk. 

In  the  mean  while  a  great  deal  of  talking  went  on  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  company  :  M.  Bichonnet,  who  was  more  than 
usually  dignified,  conversed  in  a  mysterious  tone  with  M. 
Miroiton,  a  simple-minded  man,  discussing  the  respective 
merits  of  Thiers  and  Guizot,  and  assuring  him,  in  a  low,  sub- 
dued voice,  that  l)ef(ire  six  montlis  he  might  expect  to  see 
Louis  Philippe  dethroned.  On  hearing  this  piece  of  intelli- 
gence, the  pacific  M.  Miroiton  looked  uneasily  round,  and  with 
a  cough  of  dismay,  inquired  of  his  friend  how  he  had  learned 
this.  M.  Bichonnet  gave  a  mysterious  nod,  and  merely  said 
"  he  knew  it." 

"  But,  my  good  Monsieur  Bichoiuiet,"  urged  tlie  alarmed 
Miroiton,  "  I  hope  you  have  no  ill-v/ill  against  the  king  1  " 

"  Sir,"  solemnly  replied  Bichonnet,  "  I  entertaiu  no  evil 
sentiment  against  Louis  Philippe ;  fate  has  never  thrown  us  to- 
gether, and  we  have,  I  may  h;ay,  nothing  in  common  eitlier  in 
feelings  or  opinions ;  but  it  is  my  duty  to  my  fellow-men  to 
inform  them,  wlieti  the  opportunity  occurs,  that  before  six 
months  have  passed  over  their  heads,  be  will  have  ceased  to  sit 
on  the  throne  of  France."  And  leaving  M.  Miroiton  in  a  state 
of  unutterable  dismay,  he  turned  from  him  with  a  mysterious 
glance,  as  though  thinking  that  enough  had  been  said  on  the 
subject. 

Whilst  this  political  discussion  was  going  on,  Mesdames 
Bichonnet  and  Miroiton  were  eno-ao-ed  in  informinc;  one  another 
of  tlie  faults  and  merits  of  their  respective  lodgers.  Madame 
Miroiton  greatly  inveighed  against  the  avariciousness  of  hers; 
Madame  Bicliom.et  made  no  similar  complaints,  but  only  la- 
mented the  want  of  politeness  which  existe.l  in  their  conduct 
towards  her. 


262  SEVEN    TEAES. 

"  They  really  are  not  polite,"  she  added,  sighing;  "  if  a 
letter  comes  they  want  me  to  take  it  up  at  once." 

"  Absurd  !  "  said  Madame  Miroiton. 

"  Ridiculous  !  "  gently  suggested  Madame  Bichonnet,  "  and 
quite  useless,  for  I  never  do  take  up  letters.  I  do  not  on 
principle." 

"  Quite  right." 

"Then  there  is  the  first-floor  lodger.  Would  you  believe 
it,  Madame  Miroiton,  he  gets  vexed  because  I  read  his  news- 
paper before  sending  it  up  to  him." 

Madame  Miroiton  stared. 

"  A  fact,  my  dear  Madame  Miroiton,  a  fact.  In  short, 
they  have  all  of  them  gone  to  such  lengths  that  Monsieur 
Bichonnet  and  I  have  been  obliged  to  draw  up  a  little  code  of 
regulations,  of  which  they  each  possess  a  fair  copy.  Here  is 
ours  ;  and  she  read  aloud  : 

"  Firstly. — All  lodgers  are  particularly  requested  to  scrape 
and  wipe  their  shoes  before  they  go  up-stairs,  that  they  may  not 
give  undue  trouble  to  Monsieur  Bichonnet. 

"  Secondly. — Lodgers  are  not  allowed  to  have  children,  un- 
less born  hi  the  house,  in  which  ease  they  shall  not  be  expelled  ; 
or  to  keep  dogs,  cats,  or  birds,  or  to  receive  visitors  accom- 
panied by  these  animals. 

"  Thirdly. — Lodgers  are  warned  not  to  play  or  practise  on 
any  musical  instrument  whatsoever,  under  penalty  of  instant 
dismissal." 

"  Very  judicious,"  said  Madame  Miroiton. 

"  And  yet,  spite  of  that,"  replied  Madame  Bichonnet, 
"  there  is  a  piano  in  the  house.  How  it  got  in  no  one  knows. 
Bichonnet  declares  it  must  have  been  hoisted  up  from  the 
street ;  I  am  convinced  it  was  smuggled  in  under  the  aspect 
of  a  huge  chest  of  drawers.  I  never  half  believed  in  that  big 
chest  of  drawers ;  but  now  that  the  thing  is  in  we  cannot  expel 
it ;  we  cannot  even  discover  where  it  is,  as  soon  as  we  go  to  make 
inquiries;  in  short,  it  is  the  misery  of  our  lives.  But  to  re- 
sunie  : 

•'  Fourthly. — On  account  of  Madame  Bichonnet's  delicate 
health  lodgers  are  requested  never  to  stay  out  later  than  twelve 
o'clock  at  night.  After  that  hour  M.  and  Madame  Bichonnet 
will  feel  themselves  under  the  painful  necessity  of  not  admit- 
ting them.  N.  B.  Lodgers  can  coine  in  at  any  hour  on  paying 
a  fine  of  fifty  centimes  (five-pence.)" 

On  hearing  this  admirable  code,  Madame  Miroiton  sighed, 
and  only  wished  they  could  have  it  too ;  but  their  lodgers  were 


SEVEN    YEARS.  263 

BO  restive,  they  would  never  agree  to  it,  and  Miroiton  could 
never  be  induced  to  propose  it  to  them. 

"  We  never  propose  those  thiugs  to  our  lodgers,"  supercil 
iously  observed  Madame  Bichonnet.  "  We  do  them,  and  they 
submit  as  a  matter  of  course.  Bichoimet  thinks  that  the  dis- 
cipline lodgers  undergo  from  their  porters  conduces  to  the 
peace  of  the  state  :  it  breaks  them  in  to  the  rest.  Only  one 
tiling  that  we  tried  did  we  fail  in  :  we  wanted  to  have  an  iron 
bar  fixed  to  the  open  door,  so  retrenching  the  space  through 
which  people  pass,  that  only  thin  individuals  could  get  in  and 
out.  We  wanted  to  do  away  with  the  basket  and  parcel  nui- 
sance. But  they  got  savage  ;  they  applied  to  a  magistrate, 
who  would  not  allow  the  bar;   for  once  we  were  conquered." 

W^hilst  the  two  ladies  were  thus  engaged  in  laying  down 
the  laws  of  the  social  world  to  which  they  belonged,  the  young- 
er portion  of  the  company  had  gathered  round  Antoine  Tour- 
neur,  whose  good-humour  rendered  him  a  general  favourite. 
The  young  man  who  sang  the  comic  songs,  and  the  two  lady's 
maids,  whom  Madame  Bichonnet  had  invited  because  they 
were  neither  young  nor  pretty,  as  much  as  through  any  other 
motive,  listened  to  his  sallies  in  silence;  but  the  Miroiton  part 
of  the  family  were  in  perfect  eestacies.  Mademoiselle  Ursula 
was  too  genteel  to  seem  much  amused  ;  but  as  her  vigilant  eye 
noticed  that  though  his  discourse  was  directed  towards  her  and 
Mademoiselle  Miroiton,  yet  his  glances  more  frequently  wan- 
dered in  the  direction  of  llosine,  she  began  to  look  very  su- 
perciliously on  the  young  milliner  once  more,  setting  her  down 
as  an  "  artful  designing  creature."  As  somebody  said  some- 
thing about  the  champagne,  which  had  in  the  mean  while  been 
forgotten,  Madame  Bichonnet  proposed  to  cut  up  the  cake 
first.  This  was  accordingly  done,  but  who  was  to  hand  it 
round  ?  To  ask  Mademoiselle  Miroiton  to  do  so  was  to  oifend 
Mademoiselle  Ursule,  and  vice  versa.  By  putting  the  office  on 
llosine,  Madame  Bichonnet  thought  to  keep  clear  of  mischief, 
and  she  accordingly  did  so. 

Ptosine  complied  with  the  request,  and  performed  her  task 
with  mingled  modesty  and  grace,  which  Mademoiselles  Ursule 
and  Miroitou,  both  agreeing  for  once,  internally  pronounced 
sad  affectation.  Antoine  was  the  last  person  to  whom  she 
handed  his  sliare  of  the  cake,  and  perliaps  for  this  reason,  or 
perhaps  because,  as  Mademoiselle  Miroiton  now  began  to 
think,  he  was  engaged  in  gazing  on  the  young  milliner,  he 
neglected  to  examine  his   portion  of  the  cake,  in   order  to  see 


264 


SEVEN   YEAES. 


whether  it  contained  the  bean  always  inserted  in  it,  and  which 
renders  him  to  whose  lot  it  falls  king  for  the  evening. 

The  young  man  who  sang  the  comic  songs  immediately 
discovered  that  he  had  not  the  beau  ;  the  lady's  maids  found 
out  as  much;  Madame  Miroiton  declared  she  had  not  got  it; 
all  her  children  echoed  the  words  ;  M.  Bichonnet  did  not 
speak,  not  thinking  it  dignified ;  and  M.  Miroiton,  because  his 
mouth  was  full. 

"  I  suppose  Mademoiselle  Ursule  is  queen  ?  "  ironically  ob- 
served Mademoiselle  Miroiton. 

"  I  am  not  queen,"  sharply  answered  the  stayraaker,  with 
a  tone  and  look  which  seemed  to  say  she  might  have  been  if 
she  would. 

Mademoiselle  Miroiton  coloured,  and  in  a  softened  tone 
said  to  Antoine,  "  Are  you  king,  Monsieur  Tourneur  ?  " 

Antoine  started,  and  turning  his  eyes  from  Rosiue,  for  the 
first  time  opened  his  portion  of  the  cake.  No  sooner  had  he 
done  so,  than  the  dark  bean  appeared,  enshrined  in  the  yellow 
crust.  Immediately  a  loud  cry  of  "  Tourneur  is  king  !  Long 
live  the  king  !  "  resounded  in  the  lodge.  Antoine  laughed, 
and  bowing,  intimated  his  wish  of  speaking ;  but  the  loyalty 
of  _  his  new  subjects  was  not  thus  easily  checked,  and  the 
Miroiton  part  of  the  company  especially  showed  their  delight 
by  making  an  unusual  noise.  When  he  was  at  last  allowed 
to  speak,  he  returned  thanks  in  a  short  speech,  and  concluded 
by  drinking  the  health  of  all  present.  No  sooner  had  he 
raised  his  glass  to  his  lips,  than  the  cries  of  "  The  king  drinks  ! 
Long  live  the  king  !  "  again  echoed  round.  But  when  this 
first  excitement  had  somewhat  subsided,  Antoine  was  re- 
quested by  Madame  Bichonnet  to  use  his  privilege,  and  name 
a  queen  for  the  evening.  On  hearing  this,  Mademoiselle 
Miroiton  looked  modestly  on  her  plate,  whilst  Mademoiselle 
Ursule  applied  her  scent-bottle  to  her  nose. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  ''  continued  Madame  Bichonnet,  with  a  knowing 
wink,  and  glancing  towards  the  spot  where  Mademoiselle 
Miroiton  and  the  staymaker  were  both  seated,  so  that  it  could 
not  be  known  precisely  to  which  of  the  two  she  meant  to 
allude,  "  I  think  I  know  who  will  be  queen." 

She  paused,  struck  aghast  with  astonishment  and  dismay — 
for  Antoine  had,  with  a  low  bow,  placed  the  bean  in  the  glass 
of  Rosine,  thus  proclaiming  her  queen  for  the  evening. 

A  deep  ominous  silence  followed  this  daring  act.  Madame 
Miroiton  gazed  on  Madame  Bichonnet  with  an  indignant 
glance,    as    much    as  to    say,    ''•  You  see  it  !  "    and  Madame 


SEVEN    YEAKS.  265 

Bichounet  turned  up  her  eyes,  and  clasped  her  hands  hi 
amazement.  M.  Miroiton  did  not  seem  to  know  what  to  make 
of  it ;  and  M.  Bichonnet  solemnly  shook  his  head  two  or  three 
times,  like  one  whom  uuthiug  can  astonish.  On  perceiving 
Antoiue's  meaning,  liosine  had  coloured  deeply,  and,  by  the 
timid  deprecating  look  she  cast  around,  seemed  to  iujploro  in- 
dulge!.ce  for  her  involuntary  fjiult.  But  the  singer  of  comic 
songs  was  staring  p(nnt-blank  at  tlie  wall;  the  two  lady's 
maids,  who  readily  took  their  cue,  seemed,  by  the  glances  they 
exchanged,  to  say,  "  What  a  shocking  creature  !  "  tlie  looks 
of  the  Miroitons  ;iiid  the  Bichouuets  were  equally  stern  and 
forbidding.  Mademoiselle  Miroiton  was  too  desperately  in- 
censed to  strive  to  hide  her  i'eelings ;  and  though  Mademoiselle 
Ursule  partly  triun)phed  in  the  mortiheation  suH'ered  by  her 
younger  and  more;  attractive  rival,  her  whole  attitude  showed 
the  consciousness  of  injured  dignity.  Antoine  alone  looked 
kindly  on  her,  and  seemed  to  resent  very  n;uch  the  manner  in 
which  the  object  of  his  choice  was  treated.  Tlie  truth  was 
that,  having  perceived  the  drift  of  Madame  Bichonnet's  hints 
and  allusions,  he  had  felt  piqued  at  being  disposed  of  without 
his  consent,  and  v.'ould  have  asked  either  of  the  lady's  maids 
to  be  queen  sooner  than  Mademoiselle  Miroiton  or  Made- 
xnoisello  Ursule.  Wisiiing  to  relieve  Bosine  from  her  embar- 
rassment, he  drank  her  health  with  studied  politeness ;  but 
when  he  cried  out,  "  Long  live  the  ipieen  !  "  no  voice  save  M. 
Bichonnet's,  who  lolt  himself  bound  in  honour  to  reply, 
echoed  his.  Poor  lloslne  grew  pale,  and  laid  down  her  uu- 
tasted  glass,  whilst  Antoine  frowned  on  the  silei:t  and  rigid 
Miroitons.  Willing,  however,  to  make  an  effort  towards  con- 
ciliation, the  young  shoemaker  said  with  a  ssuile,  addressing 
the  company,  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  let  me  hope  you  will 
drink  the  health  of  your  queen." 

The  melancholy-looking  young  man  who  sang  the  comic 
songs  immediately  drank  a  glass  of  wine,  first  muttering 
something  which  might  sound  as  an  assent  to  or  a  protest 
against  the  toast,  just  as  the  parties  were  inelined ;  but  no 
one  else  pledged  Antoine.  Mademoiselle  Miroiton,  indeed, 
eyed  him  with  great  contempt,  yawned  audibly,  and  looking 
at  her  mother,  carelessly  observed  it  was  late  enough  to  go 
home.  To  this  Madame  Miroiton  assented,  and  rising  im- 
mediately, helped  her  daughter  to  put  on  her  cloak  and  bonnet 
— for  Mademoiselle  Miroiton  had  lately  assumed  this  badge  of 
distinction.^  It  was  in  vain  that  Madame  Bichonnet  begged 
of  them  to' stay  a  little  longer;  they  smiled  scornfully  in  reply 
12 


266  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

to  all  her  intreaties  ;  whilst,  heedless  of  his  wife's  indignant 
glance,  IM.  Miroiton,  determined  to  make  the  best  of  the  little 
time  left,  hastily  gulped  down  two  or  three  glasses  of 
champagne. 

"Pray,  do  stay,"  urged  Madame  Bichonnet. 

"No,  ma'am,  thank  you,"  dryly  answered  Mademoiselle 
Miroiton.  "  I  can  assure  you,  ma'am,  we  are  not  blind  ;  we 
can  see  very  well  through  your  schemes,  and  those  of  other 
people." 

"  Yes,  indeed  we  can,"  echoed  her  mother,  with  a  scornful 
toss  of  the  head  ;  whilst  even  M.  Miroiton,  roused  at  last,  and 
having  now  quite  done  with  the  champagne,  repeated,  "  Ay, 
sir,  we  can,"  addressing  M.  Bichonnet ;  and  with  his  wife  on 
one  side,  and  his  daughter  on  the  other,  stalked  out  of  the 
lodge,  followed  by  his  children,  and  closed  the  stieet  door  be- 
hind him  with  a  thundering  slam. 

When  they  were  gone — she  would  have  scorned  to  do  it 
before — Mademoiselle  Ursule  rose ;  and  though  she  only 
opened  her  lips  to  say  "  good-night,"  the  manner  in  which 
she  uttered  the  words  spoke  volumes.  The  singer  of  comic 
songs,  perceiving  that  his  services  were  no  longer  necessary, 
departed,  under  pretence  of  seeing  her  home — she  lived  in  the 
house  opposite  ;  and  the  two  lady's  maids  took  the  same  op- 
portunity of  saying  something  about  their  mistresses — who  were 
both  out' — wanting  them,  and  left  the  lodge,  where  only 
Antoine,  Rosine,  with  the  porter  and  his  wife,  now  remained. 
After  their  departure,  Antoine  made  several  ineffectual  at- 
tempts to  create  a  little  mirth;  the  Bichonnets  weie  both 
dismally  solemn  ;  and  Rosine,  who  began  to  fear  she  had  been 
the  occasion  of  a  vast  deal  of  mischief,  was  too  ill  at  ease  to 
enjoy  herself  any  longer.  Seeing  the  uselessness  of  his  efforts, 
Antoine  at  length  took  leave  of  his  hosts,  without  taking  any 
particular  notice  of  Rosine. 

When  he  was  gone,  M.  Bichonnet  turned  towards  the 
young  milliner,  and  in  a  solemn  tone  began,  "  Mademoiselle, 
I  feel  it  is  a  duty  I  owe  to  my  fellow-men — "  But  there  was 
something  in  Rosine's  mild  appealing  glance  which  seemed  to 
reprove  him :  he  paused,  looked  embarrassed,  and  observed  in 
a  gentler  tone,  "Well,  well,  I  see  you  understand  me;  and  so 
- — good-night."  Rosine  made  no  reply  ;  but  rising  somewhat 
proudly,  she  retired,  bitterly  regretting  having  accepted  the 
unlucky  invitation,  which  had  so  disturbed  the  harmony  of  the 


evenmg. 


Several  days  elapsed,  during  which  nothing  of  importance 


SEVEN   YEARS.  267 

seemingly  occurred.  3Iademoiselle  Ursule,  who,  since  the 
Evening  of  the  Day  of  the  Kings,  had  taken  upon  herself  the 
office  of  observing  whatever  was  going  on  in  the  street,  never- 
theless found  the  opportunity  of  making  several  curious  and 
interesting  remarks.  Thus  she  noticed  tliat,  on  the  Friday 
which  followed  that  memorable  evening,  Madame  Bichonnet, 
notv.ithstanding  the  delicate  state  of  her  health  and  the 
severe  cold  actually  left  her  lodge,  and  ventured  to  cross  the 
street,  in  order  to  enter  the  abode  of  the  Miroitons  ;  that  she 
remained  there  upwards  of  an  hour ;  and  that,  when  she  left 
at  last,  her  features  wore  the  expression  of  one  highly  satisfied 
with  the  success  of  a  momentous  enterprise.  Mademoiselle 
Ursule,  moreover,  perceived  that  a  very  unusual  agitation  pre- 
vailed in  the  porter's  lodge  :  through  some  mysterious  means 
she  even  learned  that,  during  the  course  of  the  day,  several 
secret  conferences  took  place  between  Madame  Bichonnet  and 
the  cook  of  the  first-floor  lodgers.  M.  Bichonnet  hhnself 
seemed  more  solemn  and  dignified  than  ever.  At  last  the 
important  truth  came  out :  the  Bichonnets  were,  on  the  next 
Sunday,  to  give  a  dinner,  to  which  the  Miroitons  and  Antoine 
Tourneur  were  invited.  The  mystery  was,  however,  kept  up 
until  the  Saturday  afternoon.  It  then  happened  that  the 
portress  let  out  an  inkling  of  the  fact  to  one  of  her  neigh- 
bours, the  consequence  of  which  was,  that,  in  less  than  five 
minutes,  Mademosielle  Ursule  entered  the  shoemaker's  shop. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  addressing  Antoine  Tourneur,  who  stood 
behind  the  counter,  "  I  am  in  want  of  a  pair  of  shoes ;  will 
you  take  my  measure  ?  "  The  young  man  bowed,  and  very 
politely  led  the  wiiy  to  a  little  back  parlour,  where  the  stay- 
maker  took  a  seat,  and  in  a  very  slow  and  s.tately  manner  gave 
him  numberless  instructions  concerning  the  size,  colour,  and 
shape  of  her  chaussure.  Although  Antoine  heard  hor  patiently 
to  the  end,  Mademoiselle  Ursule  seemed  to  mistake  the  nature 
of  his  feelings,  for  she  observed,  "  I  see  you  are  in  a  hurry, 
and  I  am  sorry  to  detain  you;  but  as  I  sliall  be  very  busy 
next  week,  and  as  I  shall  not  see  you  until  the  shoes  a.re 
made — " 

"  What !  "  interrupted  Antoine,  "  do  we  not  meet  to-mor- 
I'ow  evening  ?  " 

"  Where  should  we  meet,  sir?  "  asked  the  staymaker,  with 
much  seeming  surprise. 

"  At  Madame  Bichonnet's,  of  course,"  said  the  young  man. 

Mademoiselle  Ursule  seemed  to  endeavour  to  recollect  who 
the  Bichonnets  were  ;  then,  as  though  suddenly  remembering, 


268  SEVEN   YEARS. 

she  loftily  observed,  "  Oh,  bless  nie,  no  !  I  shall  spend  to-mor 
row  at  home,  sir,  with  poor  dear  Rosine. " 

"  And  is  not  Mademoiselle  Rosine  to  be  there  either  ?  " 
eagerly  asked  Autoiue,  whose  features  expressed  some  disap- 
pointment. 

''  Really,  Monsieur  Tourneur,"  sharply  observed  the  spin- 
ster staymaker,  ''you  must  have  an  extraordinary  opinion  of 
myself  and  Rosine,  to  imagine  that,  after  the  insults  we  have 
there  endured,  we  could  ever  be  induced  to  cross  again  the 
threshold  of  Madame  Bichonnet's  lodge." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  confusedly  answered  Antoine ; 
"  but  when  Madame  Bichonnet  spoke  of  my  meeting  pleasant 
company  to-morrow,  I  really  thought  she  meaut  you." 

Though  somewhat  soothed  by  the  compliment,  Mademoi- 
selle Ursule  smiled  with  unutterable  scorn.  "  Sir,"  she  loftily 
said,  "  I  will  not  speak  of  myself ;  I  will  speak  of  Rosine,  whom 
Mademoiselle  Miroiton  has  maliciously  slandered,  for  what 
motive  I  know  not " — Mademoiselle  Ursule  uttered  the  words 
in  so  significant  a  tone,  as  to  leave  no  doubt  but  she  was  per- 
fectly aware  of  it — "  and  whonij  but  for  me,  she  would  have 
deprived  of  the  means  of  earning  her  bread."  Antoine  looked 
up  with  astonishment :  the  staymaker  continued — "  Rosine 
works  for  a  great  milliner,  who  resides  in  the  house  where 
Mademoiselle  Miroiton's  parents  are  porters.  Since  the  Even- 
ing of  the  Kings,  this  creature  has  so  contrived  her  vile  in- 
sinuations, that  Rosine  has  been  refused  any  more  work.  See- 
ing her  pass  by  the  day  before  yesterday  all  in  tears,  I  called 
her  in,  and,  as  she  can  fortunately  stitch  very  neatly,  engaged 
her  to  work  for  me  on  the  instant,  so  that  she  shall  have  work 
in  spite  of  the  whole  Miroiton  brood." 

"  And  has  everything  really  happened  as  you  relate  it  ?  " 
very  gravely  asked  Antoine. 

"  Exactly  so,  sir,"  dryly  replied  Mademoiselle  Ursule. 
"  Pray  do  not  forget  my  shoes.  Good-day  to  you.  I  sup- 
pose," she  carelessly  added,  "  you  go  to  the  Bichonnets'  to- 
morrow ?" 

Antoine  bowed  in  token  of  assent ;  and  without  seeaiing 
to  notice  the  smile  and  glance  of  contempt  wliich  she  cast  upon 
him,  he  ceremoniously  conducted  Mademoiselle  Ursule  to  the 
door.  The  staymaker  went  home,  sorely  puzzled  to  make  out 
the  shoemaker's  real  intentions,  and  quite  disposed  to  quarrel 
with  him  for  taking  no  heed  of  poor  neglected  Rosine,  and 
dining  with  those  odious  Miroitons  and  Bichonnets;  but 
though  in  such  ill-humour,  that  her  first  act  on  entering  the 


SEVEN   YEAES.  269 

Tcoi'k-room  was  to  scold  Rosine  for  some  imaginary  fav;lt,  she 
had  enough  of  self-control  not  to  say  a  word  about  Antoine 
Tourneur,  or  the  step  she  had  taken.  Perhaps  the  reader  will 
feel  surprised  to  see  the  staymaker  now  taking  part  for  tlie 
young  girl  whom  she  treated  with  such  contempt  on  the  Even- 
ing of  the  Kings;  but  Mademoiselle  TJrsule  did  not  pique 
herself  in  the  least  of  acting  upon  logical  principles :  she 
boasted  that  she  had  "  strong  feelings  and  lively  sensibilities 
— that  she  was  the  creature  of  impulse,"  &c. — v/hich  of  course 
explained  everything.  The  truth  was  that,  although,  as  she 
herself  truly  asserted,  she  had  never  experienced  the  passion 
of  love,  she  had,  however — partly  through  Madame  Bichon- 
net's  hints — begun  to  think  lately  that  her  young  neighbour, 
M.  Tourneur,  might  prove  an  acceptable  partner  for  lite.  His 
politeness  she  construed  into  a  deeper  feeling,  veiled  by  pro- 
found respect ;  and  although  she  felt  no  strong  aflection  for 
him,  yet  there  is  no  knowing  to  what  pity  might  have  led  even 
her  rather  unsusceptible  heart,  when  the  rivalry  of  Mademoi- 
selle Miroiton  awoke  all  her  jealous  feelings,  and  for  the  pres- 
ent stifled  tenderer  emotions.  ■ 

When  Rosine  entered  the  porter's  lodge  on  the  evening  of 
the  festival,  she  immediately  looked  upon  her  as  on  another 
rival,  and  found  her  artful,  designing,  &c.  It  is  very  likely 
this  impression  might  never  have  been  effaced,  if  Mademoiselle 
Miroiton  had  not  chanced  to  take  precisely  the  same  view  of 
the  subject;  which  Mademoiselle  Ursule  no  sooner  saw,  than 
she  immediately  perceived  that  she  must  have  been  in  the 
wrong.  There  could  be  no  possible  sympathy  between  her  and 
her  rival.  When  she  learned  the  unworthy  treatment  the 
young  milliner  had  met  with  from  the  porter's  daughter,  she 
felt  highly  indignant;  and,  as  much  for  a  feeling  of  justice,  as 
from  the  wish  of  annoying  Mademoiselle  Miroiton,  she  took 
ner  into  her  employment.  As  she  was  naturally  kind-hearted, 
the  simplicity  and  gentleness  of  Rosine  soon  charmed  her ; 
and  reilecting — for,  from  his  conduct  on  the  Evening  of  the 
Kings'  festival  she  began  to  suspect  she  might  have  been  de- 
ceived in  Antoine's  feelings — that  she  had  lived  too  long  single 
to  resign  herself  to  the  many  tribulations  of  wedded  life,  and 
that  it  would  be  highly  imprudent  in  her  to  trust  herself  to  the 
fickleness  of  man,  ^he  prudently  resolved  to  discard  Antoine 
altogether  :  a  task  which  she  found  the  easier,  that  her  heart 
had  never  been  in  the  least  afiected.  But  though  she  might 
be  quite  willing  to  give  him  up  for  herself,  she  was  anything 
but    desirous    that  Mademoiselle   Miroiton  should    enjoy  the 


270  SEVEN   TEAES. 

triumpli  of  supplanting  her;  indeed,  as  she  had  a  shocking 
temper,  she  felt  it  quite  a  charity  to  prevent  their  union.  In 
short,  she  resolved  that  it  should  not  be  her  fault  if  her  rival 
ever  became  Madame  Tourneur.  It  is  true  Autoine  did  not 
seem  very  deeply  smitten ;  but  then  there  was  no  knowing 
what  arts  might  be  employed.  Ah  !  if  he  only  knew  what  a 
dear  good  creature  Kosine  was ;  and  much  prettier  than 
Mademoiselle  Miroiton  too  !  There  could  be  no  doubt  about 
that  !  Indeed  it  was  no  difficult  task  :  a  shockingly  vulgar 
creature !  She  herself,  though  not  quite  so  fresh  perhaps, 
might  venture  to  compare.  But  even  in  her  thoughts  Made- 
moiselle Ursule  was  modest :  she  hated  to  speak  of  her  per- 
sonal advantages ! 

Such  being  her  feelings  on  this  subject,  it  is  no  matter  of 
wonder  that  Mademoiselle  Ursule  should  be  exceedingly  cross, 
when,  on  the  Sunday  afternoon,  she  perceived  the  Miroitons 
proceeding  to  the  Bichonuets' ;  but  when  she  actually  saw 
Antoine  taking  the  arm  of  Mademoiselle  Miroiton,  dressed  out 
in  all  her  finery,  and  who,  as  she  averred,  cast  a  glance  of 
ironical  triumph  on  her  as  she  passed  by,  her  anger  broke  out 
in  vehement  denunciations  against  the  faithlessness  of  men  in 
general,  and  Antoine  Tourneur's  want  of  spirit  in  particular. 
Rosine  gently  endeavoured  to  say  a  few  words  for  the  culprit, 
but  she  was  immediately  silenced  by  the  indignant  staymaker. 

Several  days  elapsed,  and  notwithstanding  her  anxiety  on 
this  subject.  Mademoiselle  Ursule  could  not  ascertain  how  the 
dinner  of  the  Bichonnets  had  passed.  The  cook  of  the  first- 
floor  lodgers  indeed  informed  her  of  the  number  of  dishes 
served  on  the  table,  but  further  than  this  her  knowledge  did 
not  extend,  and  the  triumphant  bearing  of  Mademoiselle 
Miroiton  alone  left  her  room  to  conjecture  the  issue  of  this 
important  event.  Towards  the  middle  of  the  week,  Autoine 
Tourneur  brought  home  Mademoiselle  Ursule's  shoes  himself. 
The  staymaker  received  him  very  stiffly  in  the  presence  of 
Kosine,  whose  eyes  seemed  riveted  on  her  work,  and  sharply 
observed  that  the  shoes  did  not  fit.  Contrary  to  her  expecta- 
tion perhaps,  Autoine,  far  from  disputing  the  fact,  readily  ad- 
mitted it,  and  instantly  off"ered  to  make  her  another  pair. 
Mademoiselle  Ursule,  who  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  felt 
somewhat  conscience-stricken — for  the  shoes  were,  in  reality 
an  excellent  fit — abruptly  replied,  that  as  she  wanted  them 
for  the  foll:)wing  Sunday,  she  must  keep  them  such  as  they 
were. 


SEVEN    YEARS.  271 

"  You  can  have  the  other  pair  by  Saturday  morning," 
calmly  replied  Antoine. 

Still  Mademoiselle  Ursule  objected;  but  taking  up  the 
shoes,  the  young  man  showed  her  so  plainly  they  did  not  fit, 
that  she  at  length  gave  up  the  point,  and  consented  to  have  the 
other  pair  made.  This  being  decided,  Antoine,  who  seemed  in 
no  great  hurry  to  depart,  entered  into  a  very  animated  conver- 
sation with  Mademoiselle  Ursule,  and  after  exchanging  a  few 
words  with  Rosine,  at  length  took  his  leave. 

*'  Well,"  said  the  staymaker,  now  greatly  mollified,  "  I  must 
confess  that,  with  all  his  faults,  Monsieur  Tourneur  is  really  a 
nice  young  man.  And  you  see,  Rosine,  what  might  happen,  if 
I  only  wished  for  it."  Rosine  started,  and  looked  somewhat 
surprised.  Misunderstanding  her  feelings.  Mademoiselle  Ur- 
sule complacently  continued  :  "  Yes,  my  dear,  did  I  not  prefer 
leading  a  single  life,  I  might  be  Madame  Tourneur ;  but 
though  I  may  give  up  this  prospect,  it  is  not  in  order  to 
s,ee  that  odious  Mademoiselle  Miroiton  marry  him;  and  really, 
child,  I  wonder  you  did  not  take  more  notice  of  him  just  now ; 
■who  knows  what  may  happen  ?  "  She  paused,  and  nodded 
very  significantly.  But  Rosine  coloured,  and  looked  unusually 
grave. 

On  the  following  Saturday  Antoine  called  with  the  shoes, 
which  were  this  time  an  admirable  fit ;  so  at  least  Mademoi- 
selle Ursule  said,  aod  Antoine  did  not  contradict  her,  although 
he  made  a  longer  stay  than  the  last  time,  and  was  still  more 
lively  and  pleasant.  But  notwithstanding  his  indirect  attempts 
to  enter  into  a  conversation  with  her,  Rosine  was  so  silent  and 
reserved,  in  spite  of  Mademoiselle's  encouraging  nods  and 
winks,  that  the  staymaker  gave  her  a  good  scolding  when  the 
young  man  was  gone — upbraiding  her  for  her  prudery,  stiffness, 
and  so  forth.  To  her  reproaches  Rosine  mildly  but  firmly  an- 
swered : 

"  I  will  not  appear  to  misunderstand  you ;  but,  with  the 
exception  of  a  very  simple  mark  of  politeness,  what  reason  has 
Monsieur  Tourneur  given  me  to  think  that  he  looks  upon  me 
otherwise  than  as  a  stranger  ?  And  he  being  rich,  and  I  poor, 
what  would  his  opinion  be  of  me  if  I  seemed  to  think  differ- 
ently ?  " 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,"  bitterly  replied  her  friend;  "  see 
him  married  to  Mademoiselle  Miroiton,  and  live  and  die  an 
old  maid,  if  such  is  your  choice." 

Rosine  made  no  reply,  and  here  the  subject  was  dropped. 
Although  the  shoes  which  Antoine  had  made  for  Mademoiselle 


272  SEVEN   YEAES. 

Urpule  were  perhaps  the  best  shoes  that  had  ever  been  made 
(so  she  said  at  least),  Ihey  were  worn  out  m  an  incredibly 
short  space  of  time;  the  consequence  of  which  was,  that  she 
had  to  or'ler  another  pair.  She*  next  discovered  that  she 
sadly  wanted  winter  boots  ;  then,  as  spring  was  coming  on,  a 
pair  of  summer  ones.  She  even  asserted  that  Eosine  had 
notliing  fit  to  put  on  her  feet ;  that  her  shoes  were  too  nar- 
row ;  that  they  hurt  her;  and,  in  short,  tbat  M.  Antoine  Tour- 
ncur  must  take  her  measure.  It  was  in  vain  for  Rosine  to 
protest  against  this;  she  was  compelled  to  submit.  The  con- 
sequence of  this  was,  that  Antoine,  who  always  made  it  a  point 
■ — doubtless  out  of  pure  politeness  ^  to  take  the  measure  and 
bring  home  the  shoes  and  boot.-,  himself  to  his  customers,  was 
seldom  less  than  two  or  three  times  a-week  at  Mademoiselle 
Ursule's  house. 

We  must  now  return  to  M.  and  Madame  Bichonnet,  whom 
we  have  neglected  too  long.  On  the  evening  of  the  second 
Sunday  v^hich  followed  that,  on  which  they  gave  the  dinner  to 
the  Miroitons,  they  were  seated  as  usual  in  their  lodge, 
Madame  Bichonnet  dozing  in  her  arm-chair,  and  her  husband 
looking  on  the  fire,  and  thinking  of  nothing,  or,  as  he  more  ele- 
gantly expres.sed  it,  "  wrapped  in  profound  meditation,"  when 
they  were  suddenly  startled  by  a  loud  knock  at  the  street-door. 
M.  Bichonnet  pulled  the  string  pilaced  near  him  for  this  purpose, 
the  door  opened,  and  Mademoiselle  Ursule  showed  her  thin  and 
prim  countenance  at  the  other  side  of  the  gla.'^s  casement  which 
divided  the  lodge  from  the  passage,  and  through  means  of 
which  M.  Bichonnet  could  reconnoitre  every  one  who  entered 
or  left  the  house. 

"  Is  Mademoi.'^elle  Bosiue  at  home  ?  "  she  hastily  inquired. 
"  Bless  me,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  continued  in  a  tone  of  deep 
disappointment,  on  being  answered  in  the  negative. 

"  I  believe,"  politely  answered  M.  Bichonnet,  "  Mademoi- 
selle Rosine  has  gone  to  vespers." 

"Oh,  dear  no,"  smilingly  replied  Mad(-moiselle  Ursule; 
"  ehe  is  gone  to  take  a  walk  with  her  betrothed  !  " 

"  Her  betrothed  !  "  echoed  the  astonished  porters. 

"  Yes,"  carelessly  rejoined  the  staymaker ;  "she  is  to  be 
married  to  Monsieur  Antoine  Tourneur  next  Sunday  week. 
I  wanted  to  see  her,  in  order  to  know  whether  she  would  have 
her  wedding-dreys  of  white  tulle  or  muslin.  But  I  dare  say 
the  muslin  will  look  best.  But  bless  me,  now  I  think  of  it, 
she  must  be  at  home  by  this  time,  and  I  to  stand  talking  here ! 
Good-night,  Monsieur;  good-night,  Madame  Bichonnet."  And 


SEVEN    YEAKS.  273 

Mademoiselle  Ilr^nle  hastened  away,  with  a  look  of  the  great- 
est consequence,  leaving  the  porters  so  astonished,  that  it  wag 
several  minutes  before  they  recovered  from  the  surprise  into 
which  she  had  thrown  them. 

"  Poor  Mademoi.'-elle  Miroiton  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  Bi- 
chonnet,  clasping  her  hands,  and  turning  up  her  eyes,  "  I 
thought  to  have  drunk  her  health  at  her  marriage-dinner  be- 
fore I  died  ;  but  it  is  all  over  now  !  " 

"  My  dear,"  solemnly  said  M.  Bichonnet,  "  this  is  what 
comes  of  mingling  with  people  beneath  you  ;  this  is — " 

"  Nay,  Bichonnet,"  mildly  interrupted  his  v;ife,  "  Rosine  is 
a  sweet-tempered  girl,  and  she  will  really  do  better  for  An- 
toine  than  Mademoiselle  Miroiton,  with  her  high  spirit.  I 
daresay  if  I  were  to  give  her  somv:!thing,  just  a  bit  of  lace,  on 
the  occasion  of  her  marriage,  it  would  not  be  thrown  away ; 
and  I  should  like  to  see  Antoine  happily  settled  before  T  die. 
I  am  afraid  the  ceremony  might  afi'ect  my  nerves ;  though  I 
believe  I  should  go,  if  they  were  to  ask  us  to  the  dinner." 

"  But,  my  dear,  think  of  Mademoiselle  Miroiton,"  gravely 
observed  her  husband. 

"  Really  I  don't  care  about  Mademoiselle  Miroiton," 
sharply  replied  Madame  Bichonnet;  "  her  airs  are  insupport- 
able ;  whereas  I  always  liked  dear  little  Rosine." 

"  I  believe,  my  dear,"  solemnly  said  M.  Bichonnet,  "  that 
you  are  in  the  right.  If  they  ask  us,  we  will  go  to  the  dinner. 
To  be  friendly  with  them  is  our  greatest  duty  towards  our  fel- 
low-men." 

In  short,  it  required  very  few  arguments  to  convince  this 
worthy  couple  that  Antoine  Tourneur  could  not  have  made  a 
better  choice  than  in  the  person  of  the  modest  little  milliner, 
whom  they  henceforth  treated  with  the  most  flattering  distinc- 
tion. On  the  next  Sunday-week  Rosine  and  Antoine  were 
married,  to  the  triumph  of  Mademoiselle  Ursule,  and  the  de- 
spair of  Mademoiselle  Miroiton.  M.  and  Madame  Bichonnet, 
who  were  amongst  the  guests,  were  delighted  with  the  whole 
affair;  which,  indeed,  they  asserted,  they  had  wished  for  and 
foreseen  from  the  beginning.  But  though  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom were  polite  to  them,  there  was  not  in  their  behaviour 
the  warmth  and  cordiality  which  marked  their  intercourse  with 
Mademoiselle  Ursule.  This  dilierence  became  still  mure 
marked  after  their  marriage ;  for  whereas  the  staymaker  was 
almost  constantly  their  guest,  the  porters  received  no  further 
invitations.  Madame  Bichonnet  now  began  to  think  poor 
Mademoiselle  INliroiton  had  been  sadly  used,  and  she  called  ou 
12* 


274  SEVEN    YEARS 

her  for  the  purpose  of  condoling  with  her  misfortune;  but  the 
young  lady,  who  had  a  high  spirit,  shut  the  door  in  her  face, 
and  informed  M.  Bichonnet's  landlord  of  the  code  of  regula- 
tions he  had  set  up  in  his  house;  the  consequence  of  which 
was,  that  the  porters  were  discharged,  and  left  the  neighbour- 
hood, "  with  the  consciousness,"  as  M.  Bichonnet  said,  "  of 
having  vainly  endeavoured  to  serve  his  fellow-men." 

About  a  year  after  his  marriage — need  we  say  it  proved  a 
happy  one  ? — Autoine  met  M.  Bichonnet  in  a  remote  neigh- 
bourhood. He  inquired  after  the  health  of  Madame  Bichonnet, 
and  learned  that  it  had  greatly  improved  since  they  had 
opened  a  commercial  establishment.  Antoine  looked  surprised. 
*'  Yes,"  continued  the  former  porter  with  his  usual  dignity, 
"  we  sell  fried  potatoes  on  the  Pont-Neuf." 

Antoine  smiled,  and  wishing  him  every  success,  bade  him 
farewelL  Six  months  later  he  met  him  again.  He  was  more 
thin  and  dignified  than  ever.  Antoine  hoped  his  affairs  were 
in  a  flourishing  state. 

"  No,  sir,  they  are  not,"  loftily  replied  M.  Bichonnet ;  "  the 
year  has  been  dreadful  for  trade,  and  we  have  suffered  like 
everybody.     I  suppose  you  have  suffered  too  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed;  I  was  never  better  of" 

"  That  is  strange ;  all  the  tradespeople  we  know  failed.  But 
we  have  not,  mind  you.  No,  no,  sir ;  we  have  given  up  the 
potatoe  concern,  it  is  true,  but  our  honour  is  unsullied." 

"  And  where  are  you  now  ?  "  asked  Antoine. 

"  We  have  a  porter's  lodge  in  the  Faubourg  St  Antoine. 
A  poor  place,  sir.  Ah  !  times  are  changed  since  we  eat  the 
Kings'  cake  with  you  in  our  comfortable  lodge." 

Merely  inquiring  for  his  direction,  Antoine  took  leave  of 
M.  Bichonnet.  The  same  evening  he  held  a  long  and  private 
conference  with  his  wife.  Mademoiselle  Ursule  saw  that  some- 
thing was  going  to  take  place;  and  though  too  proud  to  ques- 
tion them,  she  used  her  eyes  and  ears  without  scruple.  The 
next  morning  she  learned  that  Antoine  was  to  call  on  his  land- 
lord, who  resided  in  the  house  where  Rosine  had  formerly 
lived,  and  which  he  had  lately  bought  from  its  original  posses- 
sor. What  could  Antoine  want  with  him  ?  For  several  days 
she  could  learn  nothing,  but  the  truth  at  last  became  apparent. 
Ou  a  fine  morning,  a  small  cart-load  of  furniture,  led  by  M. 
Bichonnet,  and  with  Madame  Bichonnet  perched  on  the  top  of 
a  very  high  bedstead,  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  house  oppo- 
site. As  Madame  Bichonnet  nodded  and  smiled  very  benig- 
nantly  to  her,  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.     On  learning 


SEVEN   TEAES.  275 

that  Antoine  had  recommended  the  Bichonnets  to  his  landlord, 
who  was  in  want  of  porters,  Mademoiselle  was  at  first  highl;^' 
indignant.  Rosine,  however,  succeeded  in  pacifying  her,  by 
mentioning  their  unhappy  state,  and  reminding  her  that  if  Mad- 
ame Bichonnet  had  not  entertained  a  wholesome  apprehension 
of  sitting  down  to  a  table  when  there  were  thirteen  persona 
present,  they  would  never  have  become  acquainted.  As  for 
Mademoiselle  Miroiton,  she  entered  into  a  desperate  rage  on 
perceiving  her  ancient  enemies  once  more  in  possession  of  their 
stronghold.  She  even  sought  out  every  opportunity  of  injur- 
ing them ;  but  the  porters  had  been  tauglit  by  misfortune. 
They  still  occasionally  gave  parties,  but  avoided  notoriety,  and 
condescended  to  behave  more  politely  to  their  lodgers.  Ill- 
disposed  persons  asserted,  however,  that  the  new  landlord's 
presence  alor.e  prevented  M.  Bichonnet  from  carrying  on  mat- 
ters with  as  high  a  hand  as  formerly. 

As  for  Madame  Bichonnet,  she  was  marvellously  improved 
in  health,  and  went  about  the  house  quite  briskly,  considering 
her  delicate  state — for  she  still  spoke  occasionally  of  her  ail- 
ments, and  indulged  in  dismal  forebodings  of  not  living  be- 
yond the  spring;  but,  as  Mademoiselle  Ursule  charitably 
observed,  this  was  "  through  habit."  Misfortune  had  not, 
however,  soured  Madame  Bichonuet's  placid  temper.  She 
spoke  kindly  of  every  one,  and  never  said  anything  worse  of 
Mademoiselle  Miroiton  than  that,  "  Poor  thing!  so,  notwith- 
standing every  efibrt  she  nmde,  she  could  not  get  married 
after  all.  It  grieves  me  to  the  heart ;  but  indeed  I  always 
thought  her  too  high-spirited  for  matrimony  !  " 

We  have  dwelt  somewhat  lightly  ou  the  married  life  of 
Antoine  and  Bosine ;  but  it  is  happy,  and  what  more  could  be 
said  ?  Mademoiselle  Ursule,  whose  somewhat  irritable  temper 
they  bear  with  the  most  praiseworthy  patience,  is  still  their 
best  and  most  constant  friend  :  they  are  thoroughly  happy  and 
prosperous,  in  the  moral  and  worldly  sense  of  the  w  ords. 

The  Bichonnets  are  still  in  their  old  lodge  :  they  have 
left  off  a  good  deal  of  their  selfish  worldliness — would  we 
might  say  all ! — and  are  quite  cured  of  the  temptation  of 
match-making.  For  indeed,  as  M.  Bichonnet  loftily  observes, 
it  hardly  becomes  the  dignity  of  a  French  porter  to  meddle  in 
such  affairs  ;  and  he  very  much  doubts  whether  his  duty  to 
his  fellow-men  does  not  forbid  it  entirely.  The  last  tidings 
we  had  of  the  Bichonnets  declare  that,  on  the  6th  of  January 
last,  an  enormous  twelfth-cake  was  cut  up  in  their  lodge ;  the 
persons   present  were,  besides   the  hosts,  Antoine   Tourneur, 


276  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

with  his  wife  and  two  children,  Mademoiselle  Ursule,  and  tho 
melancholy  young  man  who  sings  the  comic  songs,  and  who 
declared,  that  though  they  were  flot  yet  thirteen,  there  was  no 
knowing  what  might  happen  in  time,  winking  as  he  spoke  tow 
ards  Madame  Tourueur  and  the  children ;  a  joke  which  ob- 
tained much  success,  and  is  not  yet  forgotten  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. The  same  young  man  is  said  to  have  paid  great  attention 
to  Mademoiselle  Ursule.  As  she  is  resolved  to  remain  single, 
this  must  be  a  calumny ;  and  yet  it  may  be  true  enough,  for 
Mademoiselle  Ursule  herself  was  the  person  who  originated  the 
report.  On  the  same  evening  M.  Bichonnet  also  confidentially 
informed  one  of  his  guests — which,  it  is  not  known — that  Louis 
Philippe  had  only  a  very  short  time  to  remain  on  the  throne. 
He  prudently  refrained  from  saying  how  long,  for  fear  the 
police  might  seek  to  involve  him  in  some  political  conspiracy. 


A  COMEDY  IN  A  COURT-YAKD. 

Every  one  knows  that  Paris  is  no  longer  what  it  was.  It 
has  been  pulled  down  and  rebuilt :  every  old  street,  every  old 
nook  and  corner  which  antiquarian  lore  hallowed  and  wor- 
shipped, has  been  cleansed  away  from  the  face  of  the  land. 
Broad  clear  streets  lined  with  palaces  have  replaced  the 
narrow,  winding,  and  most  picturesque  street  of  old  times,  the 
street  in  which  two  carriages  could  not  meet  without  creating 
an  uproar,  for  it  was  impossible  for  either  to  pass  unless  the 
other  retrograded,  and  which  should  give  way  was  a  battle  to 
be  long  and  obstinately  fought ;  that  street,  in  short,  which 
no  one  who  walked  in  it  once  ever  forgot,  has  become  a  myth 
as  we  write. 

Contemporary  with  the  street  was  the  archway  that  led 
into  the  court-yard.  Both  were  well  worthy  of  remark :  the 
archway  for  its  ancient  well-worn  carving,  the  court-yard  for 
the  epitome  of  human  life  it  held  \\  ithin  its  walls ;  for  the 
little  world  that,  unconscious  and  careless  of  the  great  world 
around,  moved  and  lived  thei-e.  Such  a  court-yard  there  ex- 
isted a  few  years  ago  in  the  very  heart  of  Paris.  There  it  may 
be  still,  but  we  confess  that  the  chances  against  this  are  many  ; 
we  assume  its  continued  existence  without  warranting  it. 

This  court-yard  was  ancient  and  gloomy  ;  the  houses  were 


SEVEN    YEARS. 


277 


tall  and  high  ;  a  glimpse  of  sky  appeared  between  the  lines  of 
lofty  i-oofs,  and  in  the  ever-open  arch  of  the  entrance  was  framed 
a  quaint  picture  of  an  antique  shop,  with  yards  of  red  and 
white  calico  coming  down  from  the  second-floor  and  fluttering 
in  the  wind :  besides  this  shop,  which  stood  in  the  street,  the 
inhabitants  of  the  court-yard  had  the  prospect  of  cabs,  ears, 
and  vehicles  of  every  description,  that  met  and  came  at  a 
ptand-still  opposite  the  arch,  and  had  their  battles  there  some- 
thing like  twenty-five  times  and  three-sevenths  in  the  course 
of  the  day.  The  author  of  this  accurate  calculation  was  Mon- 
sieur Gant,  an  ancient  public  scrivener,  the  oldest  inliabitant 
of  the  court-yard,  and,  beyond  all  doubt,  the  chief  dignitary 
of  the  place. 

Some  thirty  years  before  the  opening  of  this  narrative 
Monsieur  Gant  had  entered  a  narrow,  wooden  mansion  of 
venerable  antiquity,  and  which,  according  to  tradition,  had  be- 
longed to  three  public  scriveners  before  him.  It  stood  high, 
like  a  Swiss  chalet,  so  that  torrents  might  flow  underneath  it 
and  beat  against  its  wooden  walls  in  vain.  It  had  wheels  like 
the  car  of  Juggernaut,  and,  as  Monsieur  Gant  triumphantly 
said  :  "  I  can  go  where  I  like  without  stirring  from  my  table  ' 
ay,  I  can  actually  be  transported  from  one  end  of  Paris  to  the 
other,  for,  like  the  snail,  I  bear  my  mansion  with  me  ! "  But, 
to  the  honour  of  his  magnanimity  be  it  said,  Monsieur  Gant 
was  never  known  to  use  this  formidable  privilege.  No,  not 
even  to  the  length  or  the  bi-eadth  of  the  court  was  his  dwelling 
ever  known  to  move.  Satisfied  with  the  knowledge  of  its  power 
of  locomotion,  and  indolent,  perhaps,  by  nature,  it  stayed  still, 
aided  to  this  by  the  fact  that  a  team  of  four  horses  or  the  ex- 
ertions of  a  dozen  men  alone  could  have  set  it  stirring.  With- 
out examining,  however,  the  causes  of  its  tranquillity,  the  in- 
habitants of  the  court  felt  no  alarm  from  its  vicinity,  and  looked 
at  the  curling  white  smoke  which  rose  steadily  out  of  its 
solitary  chimney  with  no  more  alarm  than  the  Campanians  of 
the  last  two  thousand  years  have  felt  in  gazing  at  the  cloud 
which  ever  hangs  over  the  sullen  brow  of  Vesuvius. 

Thus  motionless  and  majestic  Monsieur  Gant's  mansion 
stood  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  court,  near  a  stone  fountain, 
half  way  between  a  washerwoman's  tubs  and  an  applewoman's 
stall.  A  faded  curtain  interposed  its  dusty  texture  betwixt 
M.  G-ant's  window  and  the  vulgar  gaze,  whilst,  by  a  neatly- 
written  bill,  fixed  with  wafers  to  a  pane  of  glass,  the  scrivener 
modestly  informed  the  public  of  his  readiness  to  indite  or  copy 
out  epistles  in  the  French  language,  at  a  very  moderate  price 


278 


SEVEN    TEAKS. 


The  personal  appearance  of  M.  Gant  was  by  no  means  re- 
markable. He  was  a  thin,  withered  little  man,  who  looked  as 
though  he  had  formerly  been  mnch  larger,  but  had  since 
shrunk  through  sonie  unaccountable  process.  His  character 
was  a  strange  compound  of  simplicity  and  punctilio.  He  had 
a  great  opinion  of  his  own  sagacity  and  depth,  was  vain  of  his 
little  learning,  and,  by  a  whimsical  contradiction,  loved  to 
think  himself  haughty  and  implacable,  whilst  he  was  in  reality 
the  most  simple  and  easy  of  good-natured  beings.  During 
the  daytime,  M.  Gant  was  to  be  found  in  his  wooden  box, 
waiting  with  exemplary  patience  for  the  arrival  of  customers, 
who  seldom  made  their  appearance,  and  conning  over  La 
Grammaire  des  Grammaires :  for  Monsieur  Gant  would  have 
gone  into  fits  if,  even  in  settling  a  cook's  accounts,  he  had  com- 
mitted one  of  those  grammatical  errors  which  the  subtleties 
of  the  French  language  render  it  so  difl5cult  to  avoid.  It  was 
the  boast  of  his  harmless  life  that  bis  style  was  clear  and  his 
French  correct. 

In  the  evenings,  when  bis  box  was  locked  up.  Monsieur 
Gant  entered  one  of  the  ancient  houses  that  surrounded  the 
court,  climbed  up  five  pair  of  stairs,  opened  the  door  of  his 
cold  and  gloomy  garret,  and  eat  his  solitary  and  frugal  dinner. 
After  this,  Monsieur  Gant  emerged  again,  crossed  the  landing, 
and  knocked  at  the  opposite  door.  A  deep  bass  voice  cried 
out:  "Qui  vive?" 

"  Gant,"  was  the  heroic  reply.  Upon  which  the  door  would 
open  and  reveal  Sergeant  Huron  on  the  threshold. 

Sergeant  Huron  belonged  to  a  race  which  has  all  but 
vanished  from  France.  There  may  be  old  men  who  fought  as 
boys  at  Waterloo,  but  the  old  soldier  of  the  Republic,  who  re- 
membered its  triumphs  and  its  excesses,  the  old  routier  who 
could  reckon  up  his  campaigns  on  his  fingers,  who  crossed  the 
Alps  and  the  Ehine,  who  saw  the  Pyramids  with  Napoleon,  or 
survived  the  snows  of  Russia,  is  gone,  or  all  but  gone,  as  we 
write. 

However,  Sergeant  Huron  was  not  a  solitary  relic  of  the 
old  Napoleonist  soldier,  at  the  time  when  he  opened  his  door 
to  Monsieur  Gant,  and  welcomed  him  with  a  "  How  do  you 
do,  old  boy  ?  "  uttered  in  stentorian  tones,  and  a  slap  on  the 
back  that  made  Monsieur  Gant  shake  aeain. 

Sergeant  Huron  was  six  foot  six ;  he  had  been  a  grena- 
dier, and  still  wore  a  martial  mustache,  and  a  bonnet  de  police 
set  of  one  side,  and  which  made  the  boldest  boys  of  the  court- 
yard quake.     It  would  have  been  difiicult  to  declare  why  he 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  279 

was  pleased  to  receive  Monsieur  Gant's  visits,  and  why  he  was 
honoured  with  these  visits  by  Monsieur  Gant,  but  contrasts 
which  are  said  to  be  indispensable  in  love  may  be  as  requisite 
in  friendship.  Certain  it  is,  that  though  the  scrivener  was 
slow  and  pedantic  in  his  speech,  not  to  speak  of  the  formality 
of  his  temper,  that  thouah  Sergeant  Huron's  ideas  and  con- 
versation never  extended  beyond  Napoleon  and  his  own  ex- 
ploits, and  though  his  manners  were  neither  polished  nor  refined, 
yet  they  agreed  wonderfully  well,  met  with  pleasure,  and  were 
miserable  when  they  spent  one  evening  apart. 

As  usual,  Monsieur  Gant  had  taken  his  frugal  meal,  where, 
against  all  culinary  rules,  there  was  more  cheese  than  meat, 
he  had  locked  up  his  room,  crossed  his  landing,  knocked  at  the 
opposite  door,  been  hailed  by  the  Qui  vive  ?  and  answered 
"  Gant ;  "  as  usual,  he  had  got  the  slap  on  the  back,  and,  sit- 
ting down  by  the  open  window, — it  commanded  a  view  of 
leads,  cats,  and  flower-pots, — he  was  recovering  his  breath, 
when  Sergeant  Huron,  drawing  back  two  steps,  exclaimed  : 
"  Gant !  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Captain,  nothing,"  replied  Monsieur  Gant,  with 
a  wave  of  the  hand. 

"  I  tell  you  something  has  happened." 
"  Oh !  nothing, — nothing.     The  old  story  :  she  has  been 
at  her  tricks  again." 

Sergeant  Huron  twirled  his  mustache  and  looked  fierce. 
"  She  is  a  lady,  and  therefore  is  safe,"  he  said  ominously. 
"  Her  petticoat  saves  her.      Otherwise — " 

He  broke  ofi",  leaving  the  rest  to  the  imagination  of  Mou- 
sieur  Gant ;  but  curiosity,  which  is  strong  in  man,  proving 
strong,  he  soon  resumed  :  "  Come,  Gant,  what  has  happened  ?  " 
"  This  much,"  sententiously  replied  the  scrivener,  "  she  has 
insulted  me  with  the  vicinity  of  a  cobbler  ;  a  vulgar  cobbler, 
for  what  is  gp  vulgar  as  the  smell  of  leather  ?  It  is  her  doing, 
I  know  it ;   but,  as  usual,  I  shall  scorn  to  resent  it." 

"  The  cobbler  does  not  wear  a  petticoat,  at  least,"  said  Ser- 
geant Huron,  with  a  grim  smile.  "  His  apron  need  not  pre- 
vent me  from  remonstrating  mildly  with  him,  and  advising  him 
still  very  mildly  not  to  come  to  the  court,  or  to  remove  from  it 
with  due  haste  !  " 

To  this  mild  proposal  Monsieur  Gant,  who  knew  of  old 
that  his  friend  was  for  carrying  matters  with  a  hasty  niilitary 
fashion  of  his  own,  returned  a  prudent  denial,  couching  the 
motives  of  his  refusal  in  a  Latin  quotation  on  the  violence  of 


280  SEVEN   YEA-RS. 

warlike  Mars,  which  Sergeant  Huron,  without  understanding 
it,  took  as  a  personal  compliment  of  the  first  water. 

"  Very  svell,"  he  magnanimously  said,  "  let  the  cobbler 
come  ;  but  remeniber  that,  should  his  behaviour  prove  excep- 
tionable— I  am  there." 

"  I  shall  crush  them  all  with  contempt,"  loftily  said  Mon- 
sieur Gant. 

From  the  preceding  conversation  we  see  that  if  the  little 
scrivener  had  a  friend,  he  also  had  that  bane  of  life,  an  enemy. 
The  individual  which  he  and  Sergeant  Huron  had  referred  to 
by  the  pronoun  '■  she  "  was  no  other  than  the  applewoman, 
whose  stall  stv^od  in  close  proximity  to  his  box,  most  imperti- 
nently obstructing  the  passage  to  his  door,  and  son^eiimes 
actually  shutting  him  in.  The  mistress  of  the  stall  was  a 
stout,  fiery-faced  little  woman,  with  a  thick,  hoarse  voice, 
which  became  start! ingly  shrill  when  she  was  at  ail  excited, 
and  bead-like  eyes,  beneath  whose  fixity  of  stare  it  was  averred 
that  M.  Gant  himself  had  quailed;  although  the  truth  is,  that, 
being  a  dauntless  little  man,  he  cared  not  a  pin  for  her.  Why 
they  were  foes  it  would  be  hard  to  tell ;  yet  they  both  felt  that 
they  were  so  ;  at  least  M.  Gant,  though  incapable  of  the  feel- 
ing, thought  he  hated  the  applewoman,  who  most  cordially 
hated  him.  It  would  be  tedious  to  relate  by  how  many  methods 
she  sought  to  annoy  the  scrivener.  But  all  her  attacks  proved 
unavailiiio- :  he  did  not  even  condescend  to  answer  her  most 
bitter  tauuts  :  he  literally  crushed  her  with  the  weight  of  his 
contempt. 

The  fact  was,  that,  owing  to  a  certain  philosophy,  either 
constitutional  or  acquired,  M.  Gant  could  not  be  long  teased 
by  anything,  and  somehow  or  other  the  appkwoman's  most 
artful  contrivances  to  vex  him  generally  added  to  his  comfoit 
or  pleasure  in  the  end.  The  persuading  of  a  cobbler  of  her 
acquaintance  to  come  and  fix  his  abode  in  the  court,  exactly 
opposite  the  scrivener's  box,  was,  however,  the  sorest  blow  she 
had  as  yet  had  the  power  to  inflict.  M.  Gant,  though  he  ap- 
parently remained  indifferent  to  this  attack,  was  in  reality 
more  annoyed  than,  for  fear  of  any  violence,  he  chose  to  show 
to  his  friend  Sergeant  Huron,  and  it  was  with  a  mixture  of 
irritation  and  wrath  that  he  awaited  the  event. 

The  cobbler's  shed— which,  as  M.  Gant  indignantly  de- 
clared, consisted  of  mud,  wood,  and  plaster — was  erected  in 
the  space  of  a  few  days,  and  pronounced  ready  to  receive 
its  new  tenants,  who  accordingly  hastened  to  remove  to  it.  This 
important  event  took  place  on  a  tine  summer's  morning,  when 


SEVEN    YEARS.  281 

M.  Gant,  who  had  just  seated  himself  before  his  desk,  could 
look  on  the  whole  proceedings.  A  small  wheelbarrow  or 
hand-cart,  dravvn  by  a  man  with  a  very  black  face,  and  fol- 
lowed by  a  woman  blacker  still,  tirst  made  its  appearance.  A 
cradle,  which  was  to  be  swung  from  the  roof  of  the  shed,  a 
dirty  board,  destined  to  act  as  a  table,  a  couple  of  bottomless 
chairs,  a  saucepan,  and  a  washing-tub,  were  successively  taken 
out  of  the  truck  and  placed  in  the  shed  ;  the  care  of  the 
whole,  besides  that  of  the  tiuck,  at  the  bottom  of  which  still 
remained  some  crockery,  being  confided  to  the  cobbler's  eldest 
son,  a  boy  jf  seven  or  ('iglit,  whose  parents,  having  more 
things  to  bring  to  their  new  abode,  now  left  alone,  with  strong 
recommendations  not  to  t(iUch  a  certain  pot  of  dripping,  which 
it  seems  was  also  in  the  cart.  It  is  well  known  what  wonder- 
ful uses  the  French  of  the  poorer  classes  make  of  dripping  : 
in  fact,  they  live  upon  it.  TJiey  take  it  in  the  morning, 
diluted  with  warm  water,  under  the  name  of  soup ;  spread 
it,  for  lunch,  on  their  bread  instead  of  butter  ;  eat  it  again 
as  soup  in  the  evening  ;  and  apply  it  to  various  other  pur- 
poses with  most  praiseworthy  ingenuity. 

How  it  hai^pened  we  will  not  venture  to  say  ;  but  when 
the  cobbler  and  his  wife  came  back,  they  found  their  eldest 
son  in  a  singularly  awkward  position.  The  dripping-pot 
was  a  very  deep  narrow  one — an  earthen  marmiie,  that  did 
not  look  much  unlike  a  belmet.  Whether  this  resemblance 
struck  the  fancy  of  young  Louis,  or  whether  he  was  im- 
pelled by  a  natural  taste  for  dripping,  would  be  dithciilt  to 
determine ;  but  certain  it  is  that  his  parents  found  him 
sitting  in  the  truck,  and,  to  their  unutterable  dismay,  with 
his  head  snugly  ensconced  in  the  dripping-pot.  To  see  how 
it  had  got  in  was  easy  enough  ;  but  to  say  how  it  was 
likely  to  get  out  again  was  a  more  difficult  task.  The  cob- 
bler flew  into  a  terrible  passion ;  he  bade  Louis  take  his 
head  out  that  very  instant,  and  prepare  for  a  sound  whip- 
ping the  next.  The  unfortunate  Louis  endeavoured  to  obey 
the  first  part  of  this  injunction.  His  mother  pulled  at  the 
pot,  and  he  pulled,  and  all  pulled ;  but  it  was  of  no  use — off 
it  would  not  come.  Tlie  cobbler  had  promised  his  son  a 
thrashing  when  the  pot  should  be  oft";  he  now  determined 
to  give  it  him  first,  and  wrathfully  advanced  to  seize  upon 
him ;  but  hoodwinked  as  he  was,  Louis  guessed  his  intention. 
He  rapidly  darted  towards  the  top  of  the  truck,  which  as 
Buddeuly  flew  to  the  ground  :  Louis  lost  his  balance,  and  in  a 


282  SEVEN    YEARS. 

second  down  he  rolled  with  the  dx'ipping-pot,  and  over  him 
the  truck  with  all  its  coutents. 

The  scene  that  ensued — for  the  cobbler's  other  two  chil- 
dren, who  were  now  arrived,  joined  in  the  cry — no  pen  can 
describe  •  suffice  it  to  say,  that  there  was  not  a  saucepan  but 
was  considerably  damaged,  nor  a  plate  that  was  not  broken. 
When  picked  up  by  his  alarmed  mother,  Louis  was  found 
completely  uushelled,  very  little  injured,  but  somewhat 
scratched,  and  bedaubed  with  dripping  to  an  extraordinary 
degree. 

"I  promised  him  a  whipping,  and  a  whipping  he  shall  get," 
said  the  cobbler,  whose  wrath  had  only  undergone  a  tem- 
porary lull.  With  his  left  hand  he  seized  him,  and  raising 
the  right  he  prepared  to  give  him  a  sound  castigation, 
when  an  authoritative  voice  called  out  "stop."  He  turned 
round,  and  saw  Monsieur  Gant  standing  on  the  threshold 
of  his  mansion,  stern  and  majestic. 

"  Stop  !  and  why  should  I  stop  ?  "  asked  the  cobbler,  with 
surly  republican  independence. 

"  Because  the  boy  has  suifered  enough  for  his  low  gorman- 
dizing," said    Monsieur  Gant,  with  an  increase  of  majesty. 

"  And  I  say,  let  every  man  whip  his  own  child,"  said  the 
applewoman,  who  came  tucking  up  her  skirts,  "  and  spare  the 
rod  and  spoil  the  child,"  she  added,  sitting  down  at  her  stall. 

The  cobbler  hesitated  :  but  a  piteous  whine  from  Louis 
settled  the  matter.  His  paternal  heart  relented,  and  with  a 
scowl  he  bade  the  lad  be  off,  on  which  Louis  shot  past  them 
all  like  an  arrow,  and  Monsieur  Gant,  pleased  with  his  vic- 
tory, cast  an  eye  of  favo  ir  on  the  cobbler,  and  reentered  his 
mansion.  He  derived  a  triumph  from  the  very  vicinity 
which  his  enemy  had  intended  as  an  annoyance  and  an  insult. 
In  time  he  actually  came  to  like  that  vicinity. 

The  cobbler  was  a  merry  industrious  man,  who  sang  and 
worked  all  the  day  long;  whilst  his  wife,  as  industriously  en- 
gaged, sewed,  washed,  and  cooked — all  in  the  shed — and  ac- 
companied her  husband's  strains  by  scolding  her  three  unruly 
children.  Still  they  were,  upon  the  whole,  a  happy,  good- 
humoured,  and  simple  femily,  who  won  so  much  upon  M. 
Gant's  affections  by  the  unbounded  deference  they  paid  him, 
that  he  began  in  time  to  like  the  cobbler's  merry  songs,  the 
noise  and  romping  of  his  children,  and  even  the  scolding  of 
their  mother.  It  was,  besides,  very  pleasant  for  a  philosopher 
like  him  to  watch  daily  the  household  concerns  of  the  simple 
people  of  the  shed,  who  with  the  greatest  candour  and  naivete 


SEVEN   YEARS.  283 

laid  open  to  his  view  every  incident  of  joy  or  woe  in  their 
humble  existence.  He  thus,  uncunsciously  to  them,  and  with- 
out ever  having  addressed  them,  became  the  partner  of  their 
little  trials,  and  the  unknown  sharer  of  their  mirth.  He 
watched  the  children  growing  up,  and  the  parents  growing 
gray.  A  certain  screaming  baby,  called  Marianne,  who  had 
long  annoyed  him,  became  in  time  a  pretty  laughing  child,  and 
then  a  blushiiio;  maiden,  on  whom  he  loved  to  ffaze  ;  Louis  of 
the  dripping-pot  assumed  quite  a  manly  air,  and,  owing  to  his 
cheerfulness  and  good-temper,  was  M.  Gant's  especial  fa- 
vourite ;  and  thus  the  most  formidable  attempt  which  the  ap- 
plewoman  had  yet  made  against  the  scrivener's  peace  of  mind, 
turned  out  like  all  the  rest,  and  literally  added  to  his  pleasure 
and  happiness.  Seeing  that  he  was  really  invulnerable,  his 
enemy  at  last  gave  him  a  short  respite,  and,  intrenched  behind 
her  stall,  silently  brooded  over  her  defeat. 

When  Louis,  who  was  now  a  journeyman  carpenter,  was 
somewhere  in  his  twenty-second  year,  M.  Gant  began  to  ob- 
serve what  had  been  visible  to  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  court 
for  several  years ;  namely,  that  the  young  man  carried  on  a 
kind  of  sentimental  flirtation  with  the  washerwoman's  daugh- 
ter, Angelique,  a  girl  of  eighteen,  very  pretty,  and  very  ca- 
pricious, but  withal  very  charming.  It  was  a  great  source  of 
pleasure  to  M.  Gant  to  observe  the  progress  of  their  simple 
courtship.  At  first  Louis,  when  coming  home  from  his  work 
in  the  evening,  would  loiter  at  the  fountain ;  and  whilst  the 
good  housewives  of  the  court,  Angelique's  mother  among  the 
rest,  were  filling  their  buckets  with  water,  and  chatting  to- 
gether, he  would  address  a  few  insignificant  phrases  to  the 
young  girl,  and  retire  quite  satisfied  with  her  coy  and  mono- 
syllabic answers.  Gradually,  however,  he  grew  more  bold  and 
confident.  Angelique  had  a  pretty  voice  and  a  good  ear,  the 
result  of  which  was,  that  she  sang  all  the  day  long,  to  the 
scrivener's  infinite  gratification,  and  the  applewoman's  conse- 
quent annoyance.  With  the  view  of  indulging  her  taste, 
Louis  brought  her  home  all  the  songs  he  could  procure  ;  then 
he  taught  her  the  tunes ;  and  at  last  he  sang  them  with  her  in 
the  cool  summer  evenings,  until  the  whole  court  gathered 
around  them ;  for,  to  say  the  truth,  Louis  never  saw  Ange- 
lique but  on  the  threshold  of  her  mother's  door.  Several 
months  had  thus  elapsed,  when,  as  the  conclusion  uf  the  whole 
affair  was  evidently  drawing  near,  M.  Gant  uneasily  noticed 
certain  symptoms  of  change  in  the  demeanour  of  the  lovers. 
One  evening,  Louis,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  came  not  to 


284  SEVEN    YIAES. 

the  meeting :  the  next  day  Angelique  received  him  with  such 
evident  coldness,  that  he  retired  eaidier  than  usual.  On  the 
following  evening  Louis  came  home  from  his  work  somewhat 
later,  and,  without  going  near  Angel ique,  paused  for  a  few 
minutes  at  the  fountain  ;  and  seeing  him,  she  hastily  entered 
her  mother's  house,  and  closed  the  door.  The  next  day  the 
youtjg  carpenter  did  not  even  approach  the  washerwoman's 
abode,  though  the  scrivener  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  in  the 
court.  Several  days  elapsed,  and  yet  there  was  no  change  on 
either  side  :  the  lovers  only  became  cooler  and  cooler,  until, 
at  the  end  of  a  week,  they  seemed  totally  estranged. 

M.  Gant  saw  this,  and  grew  sad  :  he  had  been  cheered  a 
while  by  the  sight  of  their  simple  courtship  ;  he  had  loved  to 
watch  its  progress  evening  after  evening,  and  be  the  unseen 
witness  of  many  little  circumstances  which  had  escaped  the 
vulgar  gaze  ;  and  now  those  in  whom  he  had  felt  so  deep  an 
interest  grew,  like  the  world,  indifferent  and  cold,  taking  from 
him  one  of  his  few  pleasures.  As  usual,  Monsieur  Gant  poured 
this  sorrow  into  Sergeant  Huron's  friendly  bosom." 

"  It  is  too  bad,"  he  said,  lamenting,  "  these  two  children 
might  be  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,  and  they  will  not — they 
will  not.      The  perversity  of  human  nature." 

Sergeant  Huron's  mustache  had  grown  white,  but  he 
twirled  it  as  much  as  ever. 

"  Shall  I  interfere  ?  "  he  suggested,  "  make  all  right  in  a 
few  minutes,  eh  !     You  know  how  I  manage." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  replied  Monsieur  Gant,  sur- 
prised at  this  considerate  proposal ;  "  lovers'  quarrels  are  best 
left  alone.  Besides,  I  feel  sure  the  ajiplewoman  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it  all." 

This  only  whetted  Sergeant  Huron's  eagerness  to  make  the 
loves  of  Louis  and  Angelique  all  right,  and  all  Monsieur  Gant's 
eagerness  and  diplomacy  were  required  to  allay  the  old  sol- 
dier's ardour,  and  make  him  relinquish  this  brilliant  idea. 

One  evening,  M^hen  M.  Gant,  who  had  grown  quite  misan- 
thropic, was  bitterly  ruminating  in  the  solitude  of  his  wooden 
mansion,  he  was  startled  by  a  knock  at  his  door.  He  opened, 
and  Louis  entered.  The  scrivener  eyed  him  with  silent  sur- 
prise, whilst  the  young  man,  unconscious  of  the  feeling  he  ex- 
cited, laid  on  his  desk  a  small  slip  of  paper,  briefly  saying  : 

"  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  copy  out  and  correct  this, 
sir  ?  " 

Monsieur  Gant  stroked  his  chin,  signed  the  young  man  tc 
be  seated,  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  read  the  paper  attentive 


SEVEN    YEARS.  285 

\j.  It  was  a  rude  scrawl,  in  which  the  young  carpenter  had 
somewhat  imperfectly  attempted  to  express  his  feelings.  Its 
incohei'ence  did  not,  however,  much  astonish  Monsieur  Gant ; 
for  he  was  accustomed  to  love-letters, — we  need  scarcely  say 
this  was  one, — but  he  paid  more  attention  to  its  general  pur- 
port. Louis,  carefully  avoiding  to  mention  the  name  of  An- 
gelique — an  act  of  prudence  which  made  the  scrivener  smile 
inwardly — addressed  her  in  the  following  style.  Monsieur 
Gant  thinking  it  proper  to  read  this  epistle  aloud,  we  shall 
give  it  with  his  comments. 

"  '  mademoiselle  ' — Humph  !  capital  M  wanted  here — '  you 
treat  me  with  cruel  coldness.  I  had  such  a  headache  last 
night  I  could  scarcely  sleep  !  ' — what  about  it  ?  hum.  '  I  have 
done  nothing,  nothina:,  Mademoiselle.  Marianne  knows  it.' — 
Knows  nothing  !  I  wonder  how  you  make  that  out.  "What 
next  ?  Ah  !  '  I  see  you  wish  me  to  forget  yuu.  I  shall  do 
so  ;  yes,  I  declare  I  will. 

'  Your  lover  till  I  die, 

'  Louis.' 

"  You  will  forget  her,"  said  Monsieur  Gant,  with  a  super- 
cilious look  at  the  young  man,  who  had  heard  him,  red  as  fire, 
and  evidently  on  thorns,  "  and  yet  yon  are  her  lover  till  you 
die.     I  do  not  understand.      Please  to  enlighten  me." 

"  I  beg,  sir,  that  you  will  correct  all  mistakes,"  stammered 
Louis;  ''  if  I  had  known  how  to  write  a  letter  I  would  not 
have  come  to  you." 

"  There  is  more  logic  in  that  tlian  in  this  epistle,"  kindly 
said  Monsieur  Gant,  and  with  a  tlourish  of  his  pen  he  set  about 
transcribing  tlie  love-letter. 

Spite  his  criticisms,  Monsieur  Gant  did  not  dream  of  alter- 
ing it.  He  was  a  judge  of  the  human  heart,  and  he  saw  that 
the  letter,  with  all  its  incohrrence  ami  its  absurdity,  was  better 
than  any  he  could  write,  for  it  was  true.  He  therefore  merely 
corrected  the  spelling  as  he  transcribed  it  :  when  it  was  fin- 
ished, he  tossed  it  to  Louis  with  a  scornful  "  There,  sir."  The 
young  man  placed  a  franc  on  his  desk,  thanked  him  shortly, 
aiid  retired. 

"  Ungrateful  boy,"  mvittered  tlie  scrivener,  as  the  door 
closed  on  the  young  man.  He  felt  aggrieved  that  one  of  the 
two  beings  whose  fate  had  of  late  been  his  chief  concern,  should 
look  upon  him  as  a  stranger.  That  his  own  lofty  haughtine&s 
made  it  impossible  for  either  of  the  lovers  to  divine  his  secret 
sympathy,  Monsieur  Gant  wduld  never  have  acknowledged. 

Still  it  is  but  fair  to  him  to  declare  that  this  secret  sym- 


286  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

pathy  was  in  no  wise  diminished  by  the  ingratitude  of  Ange- 
lique  and  Louis,  and  it  was  with  the  utmost  impatience  that 
he  waited  for  the  next  evening,  in  order  to  see  what  effect  the 
letter  had  produced. 

The  lovers  met,  seemingly  by  chance,  as  usual,  near  the 
stone  fountain.  Louis  timidly  approached  the  young  girl,  and 
whispered  something  in  her  ear  ;  but  she  scornfully  drew  buck, 
and,  with  a  toss  of  her  head,  retired  to  her  mother's  shop. 
Louis  looked  sadly  after  her,  still  standing  rooted  to  the  same 
spot,  until  the  stifled  giggling  of  some  mischievous  girls  near 
the  fountain  aroused  him  from  liis  trance.  Suddenly  starting, 
he  cast  an  indignant  glance  around  him,  and  hastened  to  de- 
part, apparently  much  mortified  by  Angelique's  contemptuous 
treatment. 

"  What  could  all  this  mean  ?  "  Such  was  the  scrivener's 
thought,  when  the  unexpected  entrance  into  his  lodge  of  a 
woman,  wrapped  up  in  a  coarse  dark  shawl,  awakened  him 
from  his  reverie.  He  turned  with  surprise  towards  the  new- 
comer ;  but  notwithstanding  her  disguise,  a  glance  was  enough 
to  let  him  know  that  Aiigelique  stood  before  him.  As  soon 
as  the  door  was  closed  upon  her  she  sat  down,  and  without 
attempting  to  conceal  her  person  any  longer^  she  said  in  a  lofty 
tone,  that  did  not  exactly  suit  her  pretty  little  face  : 

"  Monsieur  Gant,  I  am  come  to  request  a  favour  from  you. 
Yesterday  I  received  this  letter,"  and  she  laid  Louis's  epistle 
on  the  table,  "  from  a  person  I  detest." 

"  Detest  !  "  echoed  the  scrivener. 

"  Yes,  sir,  detest,"  loftily  added  Angelique,  "  and  with 
whom  I  wish  to  hold  no  further  correspondence.  May  I  beg 
of  you  tell  him  so  in  my  name  ?  " 

M.  Gant  took  up  his  pen  ;  a  sheet  of  letter-paper  was  be- 
fore him  ;  he  placed  his  hand  upon  it,  as  though  to  write  ;  but 
laid  it  down  again,  and  calmly  said,  "  Why  not  tell  him  as 
much  yourself,  Mademoiselle  ?     You  see  him  every  day." 

"  Because  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  to  him  any  more,  sir," 
she  sliarply  answered. 

"  Or  perhaps  you  are  unable  to  write  yourself?"  hinted 
the  scri\'ener. 

Angelique  frowned,  and  looked  displeased.  "  I  know  how 
to  write  sir,"  she  stifly  replied  ;  "  but  since  he  has  chosen  to 
apply  to  you  to  write  to  me,  I  shall  answer  him  in  the  sama 
manner." 

"  And  who  told  you  that  it  was  I  who  wrote  this  letter  ?  " 


SEVEN    YEAKS.  287 

asked  M.  Gant,  turning  inquiringly  towards  her  ;   "  for  if  you 
know  that,  /  know  that  you  were  out  yesterday." 

Angelique  coloured,  but  evasively  answered,  •'  Monsieur 
Gant,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  write  this  letter,  pray  say  so  at 
once." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  scrivener,  as  she  rose  to  depart,  "  since 
you  are  determined  to  be  miserable,  I  shall  no  longer  seek  to 
prevent  you." 

And  so  saying,  he  once  more  took  hold  of  his  pen,  and  iu 
a  few  brief  words,  as  severe  as  Angelique  could  wish  them  to 
be,  he  intimated  to  poor  Louis  that  the  capricious  beauty  cared 
for  neither  his  repentance  nor  for  his  most  passionate  protesta- 
tions. When  he  had  finished  his  task,  M.  Gant  handed  the 
letter  to  the  yonng  girl,  watching  her  features  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  them  betray  some  compunction  for  the  severity  of  his 
expressions.  But  far  from  it  :  she  seemed  highly  delighted 
with  the  epistle,  thanked  him  very  warmly,  liberally  remuner- 
ated him  for  his  trouble,  and  left  him  sadder  than  ever,  and 
in  a  bitter  mood  of  invective  against  girls,  their  lovers,  and 
human  nature  in  general.  "  For,"  he  observed,  when  he  was 
left  alone  with  his  own  thoughts,  "  it  is  easy  to  see  how 
thoroughly  bad  human  nature  is,  since  those  young  people, 
who  have  known  each  other  from  childhood,  who  have  been 
lovers  for  years,  now  part  for  ever,  not  only  without  a  pang, 
but  even  with  joy  ;  and,  in  all  probability,  owing  to  some  mere 
trifle  that  has  come  between  them." 

Now,  although  he  could  not  possibly  imagine  what  this 
important  trifle  was,  M.  Gant  had  his  own  private  suspicions 
concerning  his  spiteful  little  neighbour  the  applewoman,  to 
whom  he  was  indeed  in  the  habit  of  referring  every  evil  that 
occurred.  It  was  evident  that  some  mischievous  person  had 
informed  Angelique  of  Louis's  visit  to  him,  a  step  not  unlikely 
to  prejudice  him  in  her  eyes  ;  but  then  there  existed  no  proof 
that  this  fact  had  been  rsjvealed  to  the  young  girl  by  the  apple- 
woman  ;  and  though  he  narrowly  scanned  her  features  mere 
than  once,  M.  Gant  could  discover  in  them  none  of  the  ma- 
licious triumph  which  generally  betrayed  her  when  she  had 
been  engaged  iu  some  work  of  mischief  She  was  apparently 
calm,  and  wholly  unconscious  of  what  was  going  on. 

The  next  day  passed,  and  nothing  occurred,  save  that  in 
the  evening  Louis  came  home  from  his  work  seemingly  much 
disheartened,  so  that  the  scrivener,  who  was  very  fidgetty,  and 
constantly  on  the  look-out,  concluded  that  he  had  received 
Augelique's  letter.     On  the  following  morning,  as  he  sat  at  an 


288  SEVEN    YEAES. 

early  hour  in  his  box,  he  noticed  Louis  in  a  remote  corner  of 
the  court  engaged  in  a  mysterious  conference  witli  his  pretty 
sister  Marianne.  M.  Gant  easily  guessed  the  subject  of -their 
conversation ;  and  as  Marianne  was  not  only  cheerful  and 
good-tempered,  but  also  possessed  of  much  intuitive  tact,  and 
stood,  moreover,  on  friendly  terms  with  Angelique,  he  augured 
success  from  her  interposition,  and  impatiently  waited  for  its 
result.  But  Marianne  was  a  real  diplomatist ;  and  instead  of 
injudiciously  hurrying  to  perform  her  delicate  errand,  she 
loitered  about  the  court,  now  entering,  now  leaving  her  father's 
shed  with  a  most  unconcerned  air.  It  was  not  until  the  after- 
noon was  far  advanced  that  the  scrivener  saw  her  at  length 
proceeding  towards  the  washerwoman's  shop.  She  could  not 
have  chosen  a  more  unlucky  moment;  for  Angolique,  who  was 
ironing  in  a  little  back  parlour,  was  also  there,  entertaining  a 
sentimental  young  tailor,  laughing  and  chatting  with  him  very 
merrily.  Now  this  young  man,  who  lived  in  the  court,  had 
formerly  paid  no  little  attention  to  Marianne,  who,  when 
teased  on  the  subject,  very  seriously  averred  that  "  she  did 
not  care  for  him  ;  indeed  she  did  not  !  "  Nevertheless,  when 
she  entered  the  parlour,  and  saw  how  thoroughly  poor  Louis 
was  slighted,  and  for  whom  all  her  sisterly  feelings  were 
aroused,  she  felt  so  indignant  at  Augelique's  coquetry,  that  she 
could  scarcely  contain  herself.  In  short,  she  threw  out  such 
hints,  that  ere  long  the  young  tailor  prudently  departed ; 
whilst  Angelique,  who  was  not  very  patient,  retorted  in  so  high 
a  strain,  tliat  Marianne  fairly  lost  her  temper,  and  flounced  out 
of  the  room  in  a  state  of  great  indignation.  Though  M.  Gant 
saw  nothing  of  this,  he  conjectured,  by  the  young  tailor's 
retreat,  and  Marianne's  agitation,  that  the  ambassadress  had 
failed,  a  surmise  which  was  confirmed  by  Louis's  behaviour  on 
the  next  morning ;  for  as  he  was  entering  his  wooden  box.  the 
young  man  followed  him  \n. 

"  Monsieur  Gant,"  said  he,  throwing  a  piece  of  paper  on 
the  table,  "  please  to  transcribe  this." 

'  This  '  proved  to  be  a  very  laconic  epistle.  '  Mademoi- 
selle,' it  said,  '  you  tell  me  to  forget  you.  I  will  obey  you  as 
soon  as  I  can.     Farewell.     Louis.' 

"  Now  I  call  this  sensible,"  said  Monsieur  Gant,  with  such 
deep  and  cutting  irony,  that  Louis  never  perceived  its  point. 
"  As  soon  as  you  can  !     How  judicious.     Here  is  your  letter, 


sir." 


On    the  evening  of  the  same  day  Angelique  entered  the 


SEVEN    YEAES.  289 


scrivener's  box,  to  dictate  the  following  answer  :  "  The  sooner 
you  forget  me  the  better." 

"  Adiuirable  !  "  cried  Monsieur  Gant,  "  I  really  do  ad- 
mire your  spirit,  Mademoiselle  !  " 

Angelique  gave  him  a  quick,  mistrustful  look,  but  bowed 
and  withdreWc 

"  Ai\d  now,"  pettishly  observed  M.  Gant,  when  she  nad  re- 
tired, "  I  suppose  that  most  absurd  correspondence  of  theirs, 
by  means  of  which  they  have  contrived  to  keep  me  in  hot 
water  for  the  last  week,  is  over  at  length." 

But  the  scrivener  evidently  did  not  understand  such  mat- 
ters; for  although  there  was  a  kind  of  two  days'  truce,  during 
which  Louis  went  early  to  his  work,  and  came  home  late, 
never  once  approaching  the  old  stone  fountain — near  which 
Angelique  openly  flirted  with  the  young  tailor — it  was  evident, 
by  the  attitude  of  both  parties,  that  things  could  not  last  long 
as  they  were.  On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  Louis  entered 
M.  Gant's  box  in  a  state  of  great  ngitation. 

"  Monsieur  Gant,"  he  exclaimed,  "  this  is  more  than 
human  flesh  and  blood  can  endure,  and  you  must  tell  her  so  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  have  not  forgotten  her  yet  ?  "  ironically  observed 
the  scrivener. 

But  Louis  cared  not  for  irony  :  he  was  desperate  ;  he  had 
just  caught  a  glimpse  of  Angelique  seated  in  her  mother's  shop 
with  his  rival,  and  his  overcharged  heart  poured  itself  forth  in 
a  torrent  of  eloquent  reproaches,  which  he  charged  M.  Gant  to 
commit  to  paper,  never  once  reflecting  that  the  scrivener  could 
not  possibly  recollect  as  much  as  the  one-tenth  of  what  he  was 
saying.  M.  Gant  did  not  make  the  attempt ;  he  let  the  young 
man  speak  away,  conjecturing  it  would  relieve  him,  and  do  him 
good  ;  and  in  the  mean  while  he  cast  a  stern  and  angry  glance 
towards  the  spot  where  Angelique  was  sitting  with  the  tailor. 
To  the  scrivener's  satisfaction,  the  young  man  rose  to  depart. 
Angelique  tried  to  detain  him  ;  but  he  persisted  in  his  resolu- 
tion, and  went  away.  Although  she  hummed  a  tune,  and  tried 
to  look  indifierent,  Angelique  could  not  conceal  her  vexation  ; 
and  on  hearing  some  remark  made  by  one  of  the  washerwomen, 
she  left  the  shop  in  a  pet,  and  walked  out  into  the  court.  It 
was  at  this  moment  that  Louis,  who  had  seen  nothing  of  all 
this  by-play  reached  the  most  pathetic  part  of  his  imaginary 
epistle,  and  eloquently  reminded  Angelique  of  their  former 
attachment,  once  more  begging  to  know  how  he  had  erred. 

"  Stop  !    here,"    cried     Monsieur    Gant,    who    had    been 

13 


290  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

anxiously  watching  his  opportunity  for  the  last  two  or  three 
seconds,  "  stop  !  you  can  best  tell  her  all  this  herself." 

And  before  Louis  could  make  any  reply,  he  had  partly 
opened  his  door,  and  calling  on  Angelique,  who  was  just  then 
passing  before  it,  made  her  enter.  It  was  not  until  she  was  in 
and  the  door  had  been  securely  closed  upon  her  by  the  consider- 
ate M.  Gaut,  that  the  young  girl  became  aware  of  Louis's 
presence.  On  seeing  her  lover,  she  started  back  and  grew 
pale  ;  but  soon  rallying,  and  casting  a  wrathful  glance  on  the 
scrivener,  she  addressed  Louis  in  an  offended  tone. 

"  Pray,  sir,  what  is  it  so  very  particular  you  have  to  say  to 
me  here  ?  " 

"  I  assure  you,  Mademoiselle,"  stammered  forth  Louis,  "  I 
only  came  for  a  letter  which  Monsieur  Grant — "  He  looked  for 
the  letter  on  the  desk,  but  there  was  none. 

"  Yes,"  observed  the  scrivener  in  a  tone  of  studied  irony, 
"  I  was  waiting  till  you  should  have  done.  As  Mademoiselle 
is  now  here,  you  can  tell  her  all  you  have  to  say.  I  have  no 
doubt,"  he  superciliously  added,  "  it  will  spare  me  the  trouble 
of  writing  down  a  good  deal  of  nonsense  ;  "  and  with  a  look  of 
thorough  contempt  for  all  love-letters  and  love  affairs,  he  took 
down  ]ja  Gramniaire  des  Grammaires,  and  became,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, deeply  absorbed  by  its  contents. 

There  was  a  long  and  awkward  silence  :  Louis  at  length 
began  speaking  in  an  embarrassed  tone  ;  his  words  were  in- 
coherent and  low  ;  but  warming  with  his  subject,  he  gradually 
grew  so  eloquent  a,nd  pathetic,  that  M.  Gant  thought  it  was  not 
in  the  heart  of  mortal  maiden  to  resist  him.  Angelique,  how- 
ever, not  onl_y  appeared  to  heai'  Louis  without  emotion,  but  when 
he  had  concluded,  inquired,  with  freezing  politeness,  what  else 
he  had  to  say  ? 

"  Nothing,"  faintly  answered  Louis.  Angelique  turned 
towards  the  door  :  the  scrivener  saw  it  was  time  for  him  to  in- 
terfere. 

"  Children,  children  !  "  he  reproachfully  exclaimed,  "  what 
is  all  this  about  ?  Who  has  come  between  your  hearts  and 
the  love  of  so  many  years?  "  Angelique  hung  down  her  head 
but  remained  silent. 

"  Nay,"  observed  Louis,  now  fairly  exasperated,  '*  let  her 
alone,  Monsieur  Gant,  since  she  will  not  be  softened." 

"  And  pray,  sir,"  cried  Angelique  angrily,  "  vvho  asks  you 
to  think  of  me  at  all  ?  "  Thus  the  scrivener's  kind  effort  to 
effect  a  reconciliation  between  the  lovers  was  on  the  point  of 
embittering    the  quarrel;  but  by  dint  of  coaxing,  entreaties, 


SEVEN    TEARS.  291 

and  soothing  words,  lie  at  last  induced  tbem  to  give  liim  a 
patient  hearing.  This  discourse,  though  somewhat  long,  was 
not  very  varied  :  he  only  spoke  of  their  childhood  and  youth 
so  happily  spent  in  the  court,  of  the  pleasant  evenings  by  the 
fountain,  when  Angelique  sang,  and  Louis  listened ;  yet  he 
touched  so  many  tender  chords,  and  managed  the  matter  so 
skilfully,  that  ere  long  Angelique  drew  forth  a  little  white 
pocket-handkerchief,  which  she  applied  to  her  eyes,  whilst 
Louis  turned  his  head  away,  and  pretended  to  look  into  the 
court.  M.  Gant  immediately  followed  up  his  advantage,  and 
in  less  than  five  minutes  had  eflected  an  entire  reconciliation 
between  the  two  lovers,  who,  to  say  the  truth,  were  not  sorry 
for  it. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "  that  it  is  all  over,  you  must  tell  me 
whatj'ou  quarrelled  about."  This  was,  however,  seemingly 
no  easy  matter  to  determine.  Louis  looked  at  Angelique  and 
Angelique  at  Louis  ;  both  were  evidently  in  doubt  on  the  sub- 
ject. But  M.  Gant  was  a  shrewd  cross-questioner,  and  he  soon 
elicited  from  Louis  tliat  he  had  long  been  secretly  jealous  of 
the  young  tailor,  and  that  one  evening,  when  Angelique  had 
provoked  him  by  some  unusual  attention  bestowed  on  his 
rival,  he  had  spitefully  declared  a  new  purchase  of  hers 
odiously  vulgar ;  an  expression  which,  being  uttered  in  the 
presence  of  several  persons,  the  tailor  included,  had  so  mor- 
tally offended  Angelique,  that  she  had  instantly  resolved  to 
discard  him  for  ever. 

"And  this,"  observed  M.  Gant,  in  a  tone  of  great  con- 
tempt, after  hearing  them  out — "  this  was  the  cause  of  your 
quarrel  ?  "  Though  somewhat  abashed,  they  confessed  it  was. 
But  the  scrivener  was  not  satisfied  ;  he  had  his  own  ideas  on 
the  subject ;  and  indeed  it  soon  came  out  that  the  applewoman 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  '  With  her  usual  malice  she  had 
first  diverted  the  young  tailor's  attention  from  Marianne  to 
Angelique  ;  then  by  dark  hints  excited  poor  Louis's  jealousy ; 
and  at  last  persuaded  Angelique  that  no  woman  of  spirit  ought 
to  forgive  the  afiVout  she  had  endured.  In  short,  she  had, 
like  all  mischievous  persons,  been  so  very  industrious  in  her 
evil  task,  that  M.  Gant  no  longer  wondered  at  the  trouble  the 
quarrel  of  the  two  lovers  had  given  him. 

After  some  further  conversation,  Loiiis  and  Angelique 
rose  to  depart,  not,  however,  without  hearing  M.  Gant,  who 
addressed  them  in  a  little  set  speech,  rather  formal  and  pedan- 
tic, but  nevertheless  kind  and  sensible,  showing  them  that  the 
real  cause  of  their  quarrel  had  been  the  want  of  mutual  trust 


292  SEVEN    YEAUS. 

and  confidence.  "  And  now,  children,"  said  he,  as  he  con' 
eluded,  "  take  an  old  man's  advice — quarrel  no  more,  and  be 
ever  more  ready  to  believe  good  of  one  another  than  evil." 

Promising  to  follovr  this  advice,  and  once  more  warmly 
thanking  him  for  his  kindness,  the  lovers  now  left  the  scriven- 
er to  his  own  reflections.  Scarcely  were  they  gone,  when  M. 
Gant,  who  felt  in  a  very  undignified  hurry  to  impart  the  news 
to  Sergeant  Huron,  locked  up  his  box  before  the  usual  time, 
and  hastened  to  the  abode  of  his  trusty  friend,  who,  listening 
to  his  prolix  narrative  with  profound  gravity,  declared  it  was 
an  admirable  bit  of  campaigning,  and  that  the  scrivener  had 
displayed  the  tactics  of  a  general. 

Although  she  was  not  at  her  stall  when  Louis  and  Ange- 
lique  had  their  interview  in  the  scrivener's  abode,  the  apple- 
woman  had  somehow  or   other   obtained  a  knowledge  of  the 
fact.     The  next  day  she  saw,  as  usual,  M.  Grant  enter  his  box 
in  the  morning,  but  with  the  addition  of  a  large  parcel,  which 
he  carried  under  his  arm  ;   and  a  strange  rumbling  noise,  as 
though  M.  Grant  felt  restless,  and  was  walking   to    and  fro   in 
his  mansion,  followed    his   entrance ;    it,   however,   gradually 
subsided  ;   and  before  long,  he  issued  forth  completely  trans- 
formed, clad  in  a  suit  of  rusty  black,  with   a  new   hat  and  a 
white  cravat.     The  applewoman's   heart  failed  her  :  she  had 
forebodings  of  a  defeat.     After  carefully  locking  his  door,  M. 
Gant  walked  at   a  stately   pace    towards   the   washerwoman's 
shop.     Whether  by  chance,  or  because  she  was   aware  of  his 
visit,  Angelique  was  out  of  the  way.      The  scrivener  gravely 
asked  for  her  mother,  and  found  the  good  lady  up  to  her  eyes 
in  soap-water.      She    looked    upon    him    with    some    surprise, 
opened  her  eyes  when  he   spoke   of  a  private   interview,  in- 
wardly wondered  if  he  wanted  to  give   her   his  custom,  and 
wiping  her  hands  and  arms  in  a  very  wet  apron,  led  the  way 
into  the  small  back  parlour.      Here  M.  Gant  gravely  expound- 
ed to  her  the  nature  of  his  errand,  relating  all  concerning  the 
attachment  of  Louis  and  Angelique,  and,  in  the  name  of  his 
young  friend,  asking  for   her   sanction   to    their   attachment. 
The  washerwoman   heard   him,    and   was   astonished.       What 
could    make   Angelique   wish   to    marry  ?       She    had    always 
thought  that  if  a  woman  washed,    and    ironed,    and    worked 
hard,  she  had  little  time  to  think  of  marriage  :    so   she  had 
found  since  her  husband's  death.     Nevertheless,  she  was  not 
uuroGsonable,  and  declared  that   as  Louis   was  a  very  honest, 
industrious  young  man,  she  should  raise  no  objection   to  the 
match,  if  her  daughter  was  bent  upon  it. 


SEVEN   YEAES.  293 

On  the  same  evening  the  -whole  matter  was  settled.  In 
the  pi^eseuce  of  her  mother,  of  Louis's  parents,  whom  the 
young  man  had  consulted  long  ago,  and  of  M.  Gant,  Ange- 
lique  was  accordce,  or  granted  to  Louis,  who  presented  her 
with  a  gold  ring  and  a  handsome  pair  of  earrings.  The  mar- 
riage was  fixed  to  take  place  at  the  end  of  a  month.  The 
young  couple  were  to  reside  in  the  court ;  and,  to  her  mother's 
satisfaction,  it  was  agreed  that  Angelique  should  continue  to 
work  with  her. 

The  aj^plewonian  was  now  fairly  vanquished.  Truth  and 
M.  Gant  had  triumphed  :  Louis  and  Angelique  were  recon- 
ciled :  and  even  the  young  tailor  proved  penitent,  and  hum- 
bled himself  to  Marianne,  who  graciously  received  him  once 
more  into  her  favour.  The  scrivener's  spiteful  little  enemy 
could  bear  this  no  longer ;  her  heart  was  stung  every  day  by 
some  fresh  insult ;  she  declared  that  the  court  was  in  a  league 
against  her  ;  and  in  order  to  be  revenged  on  them  all  at  once, 
she  went  off  one  morning  with  her  stall  and  her  apples,  and 
doubtless  settled  iu  some  very  remote  corner,  for  she  has  never 
since  been  heard  of.  Some  old  cronies  o^ers,  with  whom  she 
constantly  quarrelled  while  in  the  court,  soon  missed  her  very 
much,  for  she  was  the  great  newsmonger  of  the  place;  and 
they  threw  out  dark  hints  against  the  scrivener,  even  averring 
that  he  had  caused  her  to  be  spirited  away. 

M.  Gant,  who  knew  nothing  of  these  vague  rumors,  bore 
bis  triumph  with  great  moderation.  Indeed,  with  his  usual 
simplicity,  he  rather  missed  the  applewoman,  and  certainly 
thought  more  of  the  happiness  enjoyed  by  Louis  and  Angelique 
than  of  her  defeat.  When  the  wedding  took  place,  he  was  the 
spirit  of  the  whole  party :  he  acted  as  Louis's  witness  at  the 
civil  contract,  gave  the  bride  away  in  the  church,  settled  every 
doubtful  point  of  etiquette,  and  with  Sergeant  Hui'on,  w^ho 
had  been  invited  out  of  compliment  to  him,  sang  such  witty 
songs  after  dinner,  that  everybody  was  charmed.  The  scrivener 
himself  was  astonished,  and  somewhat  ashamed ;  he  was  even 
heard  by  his  old  friend  wondering  what  had  induced  a  philos- 
opher like  him  to  meddle  in  a  silly  love  affair ;  but,  to  say 
the  truth,  he  was  quite  delighted. 

The  married  life  of  Louis  and  Angelique  proved  more 
happy  than  their  courtship.  They  treasured  up  the  words  of 
their  old  friend,  and  acted  towards  each  other  with  confidence 
and  truth.  M.  Gant,  whose  infirmities  increased  with  his  age, 
has  been  induced,  not  to  abandon  his  box — nothing  earthly 
could  make  him  do  that — but  to  take  his  meals  with  them,  in 


2  9 J:  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

return  for  which  he  most  zealously  teaches  their  children  how 
to  read  and  write,  so  that  they  will  most  probably  be  able  in 
time  to  indite  their  own  love-letters.  Sergeant  Huron  is  still 
alive,  but,  as  the  scrivener  observes  in  a  melancholy  tone, 
growing  rather  weak-minded — a  remark  which  the  worthy 
sergeant  sometimes  applies  in  turn  to  his  old  friend.  The 
cobbler  has  retired  from  business ;  the  shed  has  been  de- 
molished, and  a  shop,  occupied  by  Louis's  brother,  erected 
where  it  once  stood.  Marianne  is  married  to  the  young  tailor. 
The  washerwoman  is  as  industrious  as  ever.  We  forgot  men- 
tioning that,  as  an  instance  of  the  diminished  faculties  of  his 
friend,  Sergeant  Huron  has  informed  Angelique  that  M.  Gant 
is  convinced  the  applewoman  will  soon  make  her  reappearance 
in  the  court.  This  he  believes  on  philosophical  grounds, 
averring  that  he  has  been  too  long  happy  and  undisturbed. 
Of  course  Sergeant  Huron  is  above  this  learned  nonsense; 
but  he  has  also  informed  Angelique,  from  whom  he  can  con- 
ceal nothing,  that,  after  all,  he  should  not  wonder  if  it  were  to 
turn  out  true ;  for  since  his  friend  mentioned  the  subject,  he 
has  three  times  beheld  in  a  dream  the  applewoman  seated  at 
her  stall.  But  as  six  months  have  already  passed  away  since 
then,  it  is  somewhat  doubtful  if  she  will  ever  make  her  ap- 
pearance. 


THE  TROUBLES  OF  A  QUIET  MAN". 

CHAPTER  I. 

It  is  generally  supposed  that  a  quiet  temper  is  conducive 
of  a  quite  life.  But  this  is  a  great  mistake,  originating  in  that 
love  of  common  place  which  seems  inherent  to  human  nature. 
No  man  could  be  quieter  than  Theophile  Durand  ;  few  men, 
according  to  his  o«ti  account,  and  he  was  strictly  veracious, 
have  passed  through  such  tribulation  as  fell  to  his  lot. 

When  they  began  no  one  knows.  He  has  forgotten  it  him- 
self, and  when  they  will  end  it  is  impossible  to  divine.  Out 
of  this  remarkable  series  we  will  make  a  few  extracts,  show- 
ing by  what  unmerited  causes  a  quiet  man  became  iavolved  in 
trouble. 

Theophile  Durand  was  an  employe,  and  the  employe,  or 
individual  employed  in  any  of  the  government  offices,  forms  in 


SEVEN   TEAES.  295 

France,  or  ratlier  in  Paris,  part  of  a  class  distinct  in  itself,  and 
different  from  anything  of  the  same  kind  here.  Every  one  in 
Paris  knows  the  employe,  his  feelings,  habits,  and  external 
signs.  There  is  something  stereotyped  and  utterly  unmis- 
takable about  the  man.  Method  in  matters  of  feeling,  and 
sobriety  of  demeanour,  are  his  two  grand  characteristics  through- 
out life. 

To  this  peaceable  and  timid  class  belonged  Theophile  Du- 
rand,  the  gentlest  of  gentle  employes.  Never  did  the  in- 
nocent passion  of  caligraphy  burn  with  purer  flame  than  in  his 
harmless  bosom.  To  transcribe  in  fair  and  legible  characters 
whatever  his  chef  set  before  him,  was  the  glory  and  triumph  of 
Theophile.  Twenty  years  of  his  life  were  devoted  to  this  im- 
portant occupation ;  from  nine  in  the  morning  until  five  in  the 
afternoon  he  assiduously  bent  over  the  official  desk,  and  longed 
for  no  wider  horizon  than  that  of  the  dull  court-yard  of  the  gov- 
ernment office.  He  was  not  promoted  in  rank,  nor  did  he 
receive  auyiiicrease  of  emolument,  but  he  was  not  an  ambitious 
man ;  his  wants  were  few,  and  none  ever  heard  him  complain, 
for  in  his  ofiice  as  yet  trouble  had  not  overtaken  him. 

This  happy  existence  was  at  length  disturbed  by  the  in- 
troduction of  a  new  desk  and  stool  in  the  quiet  bureau,  where 
for  years  no  stranger  had  appeared.  The  owner  of  these  por- 
tentous signs  added  to  Monsieur  Theophile  Durand's  sense  of 
dismay  by  his  unofficial  appearance  ;  he  was  a  very  young  man, 
with  something  resembling  a  moustache  struggling  into  exist- 
ence above  his  upper  lip.  He  had  a  thin,  sallow,  and  melan- 
choly, not  to  say  morose-looking,  face,  and  a  slender  drooping 
figure.  All  that  Monsieur  Theophile  could  ascertain  of  him 
was,  that  he  rejoiced  in  the  name  of  Auguste  Tondu,  and  en- 
tered the  office  as  surnumeraire ;  that  is  to  say  that  he  belonged 
to  the  class  of  unpaid  employes,  condemned  to  Avait  for  their 
salary  until  death  or  promotion  shall  make  some  place  vacant 
in  the  ranks  of  their  companions. 

The  desk  of  the  surnumeraire  faced  that  of  Theophile,  to 
stare  at  whom  seemed  from  the  very  first  day  his  chief  task 
and  occupation.  He  did,  indeed,  occasionally  vary  it  by  suck- 
ing and  nibbling  every  pen  that  came  in  his  way,  or  by  mak- 
ing little  balls  of  the  official  paper,  which  he  entertained  him- 
self by  masticating,  and  to  all  appearances,  by  swallowing; 
but  beyond  this  he  did  nothing. 

The  presence  of  this  idle  and  enigmatical  individual,  whom 
he  vainly  endeavoured  to  draw  into  occasional  discourse,  awed 
and  annoyed  Theophile  Dmand.     If  he  ever  looked  up  from 


296  SEVEN   YEARS. 

his  desk  it  was  to  see  Anguste  Tonclu  sucking  a  pen  and  look- 
ing at  him  intently.  This  happened  so  often,  that  at  length 
Theophile  resolved  to  look  up  no  more  ;  but  this  only  rendered 
matters  worse,  as  he  had  a  ceaseless  .consciousness  that  the  sur- 
numeraire's  eye  never  left  him ;  a  fact  of  wliich  he  became 
firmly  convinced,  when  once  raising  his  eyes  by  chance,  he 
met  the  same  dull  and  apparently  eternal  glance  fastened  on 
him  still.  From  that  moment  Theophile  resigned  himself  to 
the  decrees  of  fate.     He  felt  a  trouble  at  hand. 

Six  months  had  passed  away.  Time  had  tended  to  weaken 
those  first  unpleasant  impressions,  and  Theophile  had  grown 
accustomed  to  the  presence  of  Auguste  Tondu.  One  afternoon, 
as  the  clock  struck  five,  he  rose  as  usual  from  his  stool,  wiped 
his  pen,  put  away  his  papers,  slowly  pulled  oft"  the  black  glazed 
calico  sleeves  destined  to  protect  the  cloth  of  his  coat,  and  was 
stretching  out  his  hand  toward  his  hat,  when  a  sepulchral  voice 
said  : 

"  Monsieur  Durand,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  how 
long  this  is  to  last?" 

It  was  Auguste  Tondu,  the  only  employe  besides  Monsieur 
Durand  remaining  in  the  ofiice,  who  had  spoken.  Theophile 
remained  mute.  He  was  in  too  great  a  state  of  surprise  at  the 
xmexpected  query  to  think  of  answering  it. 

"  Sir,"  disdainfully  resumed  the  young  man,  "  I  perceive 
you  are  dull  of  apprehension.  My  meaning  is  this.  I  have 
been  deluded  into  the  acceptance  of  this  place  of  surnumeraire 
under  the  impression  that  you  would  speedily  die  or  get  pro- 
Bioted ;  but,  sir,  you  are  doing  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other. 
I  have  Avaited  six  months ;  my  patience  is  exhausted,  and  I 
want  to  know  how  long  tliis  is  going  to  last  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  rather  agitatedly  replied  Theophile,  "  you  wish  to 
know  more  than  I  can  tell.  If  my  chef  is  willing  to  promote 
me  I  am  quite  willing  to  be  promoted,  that  is  all  I  can  say." 

"  And  you  know  nothing  about  the  other  thing '?  " 

"No,  sir,  1  do  not." 

"  Upon  your  word,  sir  !  "  continued  Auguste,  with  a  suspi- 
cious look  that  implied  he  thought  Monsieur  Theophile  better 
informed  on  this  subject  than  he  chose  to  confess. 

"  Upon  my  word,  sir,  I  know  nothing  about  it ;  and  I  may 
add,  sir,  that  I  am  not  at  all  inquisitive ;  I  really  have  no  wish 
to  know." 

"Well,  sir,"  resumed  Auguste,  with  an  oblique  look,  "you 
are  on  your  guard ;  you  know  that  you  stand  in  my  way — 
enough." 


SEVEN   YEARS.  297 

Monsieur  Theopliile  uneasily  inquired  into  tlie  exact  nature 
of  his  meaning,  but  the  only  reply  he  received  was  tlie  enig- 
matic "enough,"  sententiously  repeated.  He  was  going  to 
retire  in  a  most  anxious  foreboding  state  of  mind,  when  Auo-uste 
exclaimed,  with  something  like  pathos  : 

"  Sir,  listen  to  me,  1  beseech  you.  I  mu4st  unburthen  my 
mind  to  some  one.  I  have  conceived  a  particular  affection  for 
you.     Again  I  say,  hear  me  !  " 

Why  did  the  tender-hearted  Theophile  listen  to  this  insid- 
ious prayer  ?  but  there  was  the  mischief :  he  must  needs  be 
kind  and  obliointr. 

o         a 

Auguste  continued : 

"  You  behold  in  me  the  victim  of  circumstances ;  a  wretched, 
yes,  sir,  a  thoroughly  wretched  man." 

He  did  look  very  desperate  as  he  pursued  :  "  Life  is  dull, 
sir,  dreadfully  dull.  I  want  excitement,  genuine  excitement. 
It  is  a  want  of  my  nature  ;  but  I  cannot  get  it,  and  no  one  will 
help  me  to  it.     Will  you  1  " 

"  Sir,  be  pleased  to  particularize,"  gravely  replied  Theo- 
phile, "  and  I  shall  see  what  1  can  do." 

''  Sir,  you  can  do  nothing  ;  I  have  been  jjlaced  here  by  a 
perfidious  uncle  of  mine,  who  declared  you  were  going  to  die 
or  be  promoted.  Accordingly  I  find  this  place  narrow.  In- 
deed, the  whole  world  is  narrov/.  I  have  sought,  I  may  say 
that  I  have  hunted,  for  the  ideal  and  never  found  it.  Life  is 
prose,  sir,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

Monsieur  Theophile  smiled  :  he  began  to  understand  his 
companion. 

"  You  want  excitement,"  he  said,  still  smiling;  "  get  mar- 
ried, my  friend,  get  married." 

Monsieur  Tondu  seemed  to  think  the  remedy  a  desperate 
one  indeed,  for  he  growled  something  or  other,  and  looked 
suspicious. 

"  Why  did  you  not  marry  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because  1  do  not  like  excitement,"  was  the  composed 
reply. 

"  Are  you  sent  by  my  uncle  ?  "  asked  Tondu,  still  sus- 
picious. 

Monsieur  Durand  replied  that  he  had  not  the  honour  of 
knowing  Monsieur  To'ndu's  uncle. 

"  Well,  1  do  not  object  to  marriage  by  way  of  a  change," 
said  Monsieur  Tondu ;  ""  indeed  1  feel  that  to  be  loved  by  a 
lovely  woman  would  calm  me  down.     I  have  a  handsome  for- 
tune of  my  own,  which  my  uncle  cannot  keep  from  me,  and  I 
13* 


298  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

do  not  care  about  a  dot.  No,  a  beautiful,  adoring  creaturBj 
young  and  accomplished,  is  all  I  want." 

"  How  would  you  like  her  to  be  ?  "  asked  Monsieur  Durand, 
"  dark  or  fair  ?  " 

"  Fair,  fair  !  "  exclaimed  Monsieur  Tondu,  with  a  vivacity 
that  scouted  the  mere  idea  of  raven  locks.  "  Fair,  but  by  no 
means  red  !  " 

"  Blue  eyes,"  suggested  Theophile. 

"  Ah !  heavenly  blue  !  "  ejaculated  Auguste  "  celestial 
colour ! " 

"  A  fair  complexion  ?  " 

"  Lilies  and  roses  !  " 

"  A  sweet  temper  ?  " 

"  A  sweet  temper !  "  repeated  Auguste,  "  Monsieur  Durand, 
when  shall  I  see  her  ?  " 

"  Softly,  softly,"  said  Monsieur  Durand,  nodding,  "  I  must 
speak  to  her  mother  first,  and  to  her." 

"  Tell  her  I  adore  her  already,"  enthusiastically  exclaimed 
the  young  man  ;  "  tell  her — " 

"Softly,  softly,  you  are  not  of  age.  May  I  know  if  you 
are  free  to  marry  as  you  choose"? " 

"  I  have  ten  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  I  shall  be  twenty- 
five  next  month,"  composedly  replied  Monsieur  Tondu;  "only 
let  me  see  this  angel — what  is  her  name  ?  " 

"  Virginie." 

"  Only  let  me  see  Virginie  then,  and  everything  is  well." 

"  You  cannot  see  Virginie  before  a  week,"  replied  Monsieur 
Durand  ;  in  the  meanwhile  I  trust  you  will  be  silent." 

"  As  the  grave,"  was  the  solemn  reply,  and  on  that  under- 
standing they  parted. 

"  He  looks  rather  young  for  Virginie,"  thought  Monsieur 
Durand,  as  he  walked  home,  "  but  ten  thousand  francs  a  year 
will  make  him  seem  lovely.  It  is  plain,  too,  that  he  will  make 
my  cousin  happy,  but  prudence,  common  prudence,  requires 
that  I  should  make  a  few  inquiries  before  we  proceed  in  this 
matter." 

Monsieur  Durand  loved  plain  dealing  in  all  things.  Noth- 
ing plainer  and  more  straightforward  now  occurred  to  him 
than  to  step  round  to  M.  Tondu,  senior,  and  sound  him  con- 
cerning the  worldly  prospects  of  his  imaginative  nephew. 

Monsieur  Tondu  the  elder  was  a  very  old  gentleman,  who 
lived  in  an  old  house,  and  whom  Monsieur  Durand  found 
sneezing  and  coughing  by  the  fire-side.  He  wore  a  green 
shade  to  protect  his  eyes,  and  sat  with  his  hands  on  his  knees. 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  299 

From  beneatli  his  shade  he  peered  at  Monsieur  Durand,  and 
feebly  inquired  into  his  errand. 

"  I  am  come,"  began  Monsieur  Durand,  with  a  mysterious 
air. 

"  Sir,"  interrupted  the  old  gentleman,  with  a  cautious  fore- 
finger, "sir,  take  care.     I  can  stand  no  emotion,  no  agitation." 

"  I  trust  neither  to  move  nor  to  agitate  you,"  replied  Mon- 
sieur Durand.     "  I  am  come — " 

"  Does  it  relate  to  money  ?"  interrupted  the  old  gentleman  ; 
"  I  warn  you  that  I  neither  give  nor  lend." 

"  I  never  ask  or  borrow,"  replied  Theophile,  with  great 
dignity  ;  "  please  to  hear  me." 

This  seemed  no  easy  matter  to  obtain ;  for  first  of  all  the 
old  gentleman  felt  sure  that  there  was  a  draught,  then 
that  the  chimney  smoked,  and  it  was  only  when  Theophile 
was  rising  in  despair,  that  the  old  gentleman  said  pettishly : 
"  Eeally,  sir,  this  is  very  strange.  I  think  you  have  been  here 
quite  long  enough  to  let  me  know  your  errand. 

"  Sir,"  began  Theophile,  sitting  down,  and  peering  myste- 
riously into  the  old  gentleman's  face,  "  you  have  a  nephew." 

Here  a  very  red-haired  lady  of  some  thirty  odd  years, 
whom  Monsieur  Durand  had  not  noticed  before,  looked  from 
the  window  where  she  sat  working,  and  said  in  rather  a  mas- 
culine voice : 

"  Well,  sir,  what  if  my  father  has  a  nephew  1  are  you  too 
come  to  abuse  the  poor  boy  1  " 

"  Oh,  her  !  not  a  very  good  character,  I  fear !  "  thought 
Monsieur  Durand,  "  I  did  well  to  come,"  But,  though  he  in- 
wardly congratulated  himself  on  his  shrewdness,  he  declared 
aloud  that  he  came  not  to  breed  family  strife,  or  report  evil  of 
the  youthful  Tondu. 

"I  only  came,"  he  added  blandly,  "to  inquire  into  a  few 
particulars,  such  as  his  age,  and  the  precise  epoch  when  he  is 
to  begin  and  enjoy  those  ten  thousand  francs  a  year." 

"  Sir,  you  are  very  indiscreet,"  said  the  red-haired  lady, 
rising  as  if  to  leave  the  room ;  "  my  cousin's  age  and  income 
are  no  business  of  yours." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  raising  a  shaking  forefinger, 
"  if  that  boy  has  signed  bills  they  are  so  much  waste  paper  ; 
his  debts  I  will  never  pay,  and  he  is  only  a  child  of  nineteen 
according  to  law." 

"  Nineteen !  "  exclaimed  Monsieur  Durand,  "  he  told  me 
he  was  twenty-five,  and  that  he  was  coming  in  to  ten  thousand 
francs  a  year  next  month." 


300  SEVEN"  TEAE8. 

"  Outrageous,  indelicate  !  "  exclaimed  the  red-haired  lady^ 
who  darted  angry  looks  at  her  father.  "  You  ought  not  to  ba 
answered,  sir."  But  not  heeding  her,  the  old  gentleman  pur- 
sued : 

"  He  is  nineteen,  sir  ;  a  lazy,  good-for-nothing  hoy,  whom 
I  keep  out  of  charity,  Avho  has  not  a  sou  of  his  oAvn.  If  he 
owes  you  money,  sir,  you  may  hid  adieu  to  it ;  you  will  never 
get  it." 

"  He  owes  me  nothing,"  impatiently  replied  Monsieur  Du- 
rand ;  "  I  only  want  to  know  when  he  comes  in  to  those  ten 
thousand  francs  a  year." 

"  And  I  insist  on  knowing  your  motive  for  making  that 
extraordinary  inquiry,"  said  the  lady,  with  something  like 
majesty. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  we  want  to  know." 

Looking  as  dignified  as  either  of  tliem,  Thoopbile  began  : 

"  Monsieur  Auguste  Tondu,  having  expressed  to  me  the 
want  of  excitement  under  which  he  labours,  I  advised  him  to 
marry." 

"  Very  good  advice,"  said  the  lady. 

"  He  assured  me  he  did  not  care  for  money  :  he  only  wanted 
beauty  and  love." 

The  lady  nodded. 

"  I  accordingly  proposed  my  cousin  Virginie  Martin." 

"  Gro  on,  sir,"  said  the  lady. 

"  A  beautiful  girl,  with  whom  he  fell  in  love  on  my  de- 
scription." 

"  Go  on." 

"  For  she  is  fair,  not  red,  and  very  charming." 

"  Go  on,  sir." 

"  I  am  going  on,"  said  Theophile,  a  little  impatient  at  this 
needless  spurring,  "  they  are  to  meet  in  a  week ;  to  meet  will 
be  to  love,  but  Virginie  has  no  money,  and  I  wish  to  know  the 
truth  of  Monsieur  Tondu's  assertion :  is  he  to  enter  next  month 
on  ten  thousand  francs  a  year  ?  " 

"  Go  on,"  grimly  said  the  lady. 

"  I  will  not,"  indignantly  replied  Theophile  ;  "  I  have  said 
all  I  had  to  say." 

"  Sir,  I  warned  you  not  to  agitate  me,"  exclaimed  the  old 
gentleman,  and  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  he  fell  into 
a  fit.  The  lady  screamed,  and  instead  of  rushing  to  her  father 
went  into  violent  hysterics. 

All  presence  of  mind  forsook  Monsieur  Durand.  Instead 
of  assisting  his  victims,  he  flew  to  the  door,  flew  down  the  stair- 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  301 

case,  and  flew  along  the  street,  to  the  confusion  and  amazement 
of  all  quiet  passengers. 

We  will  not  describe  Monsieur  Durand's  state  of  mind. 
He  felt,  he  knew  that  he  had  committed  some  dreadful  mistake, 
he  dreaded  meeting  the  deceitful  Tondu,  who  had  led  him  into 
all  this  trouble,  and  yet  meet  him  he  must.  Carefully,  when 
that  individual  entered,  did  he  glance  up  from  his  desk,  anxious- 
ly did  he  endeavour  to  read  in  his  face  the  story  of  the  preced- 
ing day's  adventure. 

Auguste  Tondu's  face  was  black  as  night,  but  as  he  gave 
him,  Theophile,  no  particular  share  of  attention,  our  friend 
concluded  that,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  all  was  right. 

He  was  congratulatiog  himself  on  his  escape,  and  prepar- 
ing to  depart  as  four  struck,  when,  with  upraised  hand,  Mon- 
sieur Tondu  said  :  "  Stop  !  " 

"  Stop  !  "  he  repeated,  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"  Tell  it  to  me  as  we  go  along,"  suggested  Monsieur  Du- 
rand,  managing  to  reach  the  door. 

"  Right,  I  shall  go  home  with  you,"  replied  Auguste  Ton- 
du, taking  his  arm. 

There  was  no  help  for  it,  so  Monsieur  Durand  submitted. 
As  they  walked  together,  Monsieur  Tondu  said  significantly  : 

"  Have  you  ever  had  an  enemy  ?  No.  Well,  I  was  scarcely 
born  when  my  enemy  began.  He  is  my  own  cousin,  much 
older  than  myself,  and  a  monster.  We  had  not  heard  of  him 
for  a  long  time,  but  yesterday  he  appeared  again — but  first  let 
me  explain  a  few  matters.  I  have  been  reared  by  a  benevolent 
uncle,  whom  I  revere,  and  I  am  to  marry  his  daughter,  a  beau- 
tiful young  creature,  whom  I  doat  on,  and  who  has  tea  thou- 
sand francs  a  year  of  her  own — you  understand  ?  " 

''  Quite,"  replied  Theophile  Durand,  "  your  cousin  is  the 
lady  I  saw  yesterday,  and  who — " 

"  You  never  saw  her,"  interrupted  Monsieur  Tondu,  with 
some  sternness,  "  neither  say  nor  think  so.  Do  not  speak : 
let  me  go  on.  Well,  sir,  my  cousin,  after  being  a  long  time 
invisible,  appeared  again  yesterday.  To  my  revered  uncle  he 
painted  me  in  the  most  odious  colours  :  as  a  spendthrift,  in 
short,  as  a  wretch  :  to  my  adored  cousin,  he  spoke  of  me  as  a 
faithless  lover,  specixlating  on  her  fortune  to  marry  another 
woman.  In  short,  sir,  the  monster  did  not  leave  the  house 
until  my  uncle  was  in  a  fit  and  my  cousin  in  hysterics.  On 
returning  home  I  found  them  in  that  pitiable  condition.  Well, 
sir,  what  do  you  think  of  having  an  enemy  ?  " 

Monsieur   Durand  was   a  quiet  man.     "  Sir,"  he  said  du- 


302  SEVEN   YEAE8. 

biously,  "  how  do  you  know  it  was  your  cousin  worked  all  this 
mischief?  " 

With  the  utmost  composure  Auguste  Tondu  replied  : 

'*  He  took  an  assumed  name,  something  like  13ertrand  le 
Grand,  but  my  cousin,  who  has  wonderful  perspicacity,  recog- 
nised him  from  the  first.  We  have  given  a  description  of  him 
to  the  Commissaire  de  Police,  and  he  informed  us  this  morning 
that  he  is  on  the  track." 

"  Sir,"  said  Monsieur  Durand,  with  great  dignity,  "  I  scorn 
the  falsehood.  I  will  not  betray  you,  but  I  scorn  the  false- 
hood." 

A  fierce  and  malignant  look  was  Auguste  Tondu's  reply. 

"  You  wish  for  war,"  he  said  ominously.  "  Well,  then,  war 
you  shall  have." 

Here  Theophile's  heart  failed  him.  He  remembered  the 
manifold  opportunities  his  enemy  would  possess  of  annoying 
him.  He  already  felt  pins  in  his  stool,  and  saw  blotches  of 
ink  on  his  fair-written  sheet.     His  proud  spirit  gave  in. 

"  Well,  sir,"  he  said  desperately,  "  I  yield,  yes,  bir.  Your 
male  cousin  is  a  wretch,  and  your  female  cousin  an  angel." 

"Whom  you  have  never  seen,"  suggested  Auguste. 

"  J^ever,"  said  Theophile,  who  soothed  his  conscience  with 
the  gentle  equivocation  that  the  red-haired  lady  who  said  "  go 
on  "  was  not  at  all  like  an  angel. 

Thus  ended  this  trouble  !  with  peace,  it  is  true,  but  with 
peace  bought  on  such  ignominious  terms,  that  they  rankled  in 
Theophile's  mind.  He  could  not  endure  the  sight  of  Auguste 
Tondu ;  he  could  not  meet  with  patience  that  deceiver's  im- 
pudent look  ;  in  short,  he  could  have  no  peace  of  mind  until,  on 
his  own  request,  he  was  transferred  to  another  room.  Here  he 
breathed  freely  and  felt  happy,  until  he  made  some  bitter  dis- 
coveries, not  the  least  irritating  of  which  was,  that  his  new 
stool  was  in  a  constant  and  refreshing  draught.  The  other 
annoyances  he  had  to  bear,  such  as  the  employes'  conspiring 
not  to  let  him  see  the  newspaper,  or  uniting  in  an  amiable  plot 
to  exclude  from  him  the  heat  of  the  stove  in  winter,  he  thought 
little  of:  they  were  the  result  of  that  trouble  to  which,  from 
the  name  of  its  originator,  he  gave  the  name  of  Tondu.  "  My 
Tondu  trouble  "  he  called  it  in  that  private  autography  which, 
like  every  human  being,  he  daily  wrote  for  his  own  perusal,  on 
the  broad  sheets  of  memory. 


SEVEN    TEAKS.  303 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  second  trouble   of  the  quiet  man,  second  on  Dur  list 
hundredth  on  his,  was  even   more   formidable  than  that  which 
we  have  related,  and  ought  to  be  a  warning  to  all  quiet,  pru- 
dent persons. 

Monsieur  Durand  had  a  cousin,  a  widowed  lady,  named  Mme. 
Martin,  who  had  a  daughter  named  Virginie,  whom  Monsieur 
Durand  was  extremely  anxious  to  see  fairly  married ;  per- 
haps because  her  mother  dropped  surh  strange  pertinacious 
hints,  that  he  could  not  possibly  misunderstand  their  meaning: 
she  wanted  him  to  marry  Virginic.  Now  though  Virgiuie 
was  amiable,  good,  and  pretty,  Monsieur  Durand  loved  celibacy 
too  tenderly  to  think  of  relinquishing  her  company  for  that  of 
mortal  woman,  and  he  hunted  out  husbands  with  a  praiseworthy 
pertinacity,  that  endeared  him  to  the  mother,  and  made  him 
thoroughly  odious  to  the  daughter. 

His  cousin,  Madame  Martin,  a  thin  and  sharp  little  woman, 
resided  in  one  of  the  quiet  Paris  streets,  one  of  those  streets 
where  the  houses  have  shady  gardens,  full  of  lilacs  and  labur- 
nums ;  streets  daily  becoming  more  scarce.  Opposite  her  re- 
sided, in  one  of  those  embowered  houses,  her  friend  Madame 
Legrand,  a  comfortable  woman  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  who 
now  and  then  had  a  superfluous  floor  to  let. 

Neither  in  person  nor  in  circumstances  were  the  two  friends 
alike ;  but  they  had  one  point  of  resemblance,  they  were  both 
"  women  of  the  world."  At  least  they  said  so,  to  each  other 
especially. 

If  Madame  Legrand  gave  a  cosy  little  dinner  to  a  quiet 
little  circle  of  friends,  and  if  instead  of  asking  Madame  Mar- 
tin and  her  pretty  daughter  Virgiuie,  she  asked  the  two  cross, 
but  rich,  old  maids  opposite,  she  was  the  first  to  tell  her  friend 
of  it,  with  the  followina;  enwas-infr  frankness  : 

"  You  see,  my  dear  Madame  Martin,  I  would  much  sooner 
have  had  you  and  that  dear  little  Virginie,  but  what  can  one 
do  ?  those  two  old  creatures  are  always  loading  me  with  pre- 
serves; it  was  only  last  week  they  sent  me  a  bottle  of  noyau, 
and  another  of  ratafia;  and  then,  my  dear  Madame  Martin, 
though  I  do  not  care  one  pin  about  them,  yet  I  am  an  old 
woman  of  the  world — that's  the  truth  of  it." 

Ear  from  being;  or  showing  herself  oS'ended,  Madame  Mar- 
tin  admired  her  friend,  and  approved  her  warmly,     "  Quite 


304-  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

right,"  she  replied  with  emphatic  nod  and  tone,  "  quite  right ; 
that,  and  no  other,  was  the  way  to  get  on  through  lite. 
She  was  an  old  woman  of  the  world  herself,  and  would  haA'e 
done  just  the  same.  Invite  her  and  Virginie  !  why  so  ?  What 
was  there  to  gain  by  them  she  should  like  to  know  ?  No, 
no,  ask  the  donors  of  preserves,   noyau,   and    ratafia  by  all 


means." 


Thanks  to  this  philosojihic  indulgence,  the  two  ladies  went 
on  wonderfully  well.  It  is  true  that  occasionally — not  more 
than  five  or  six  times  a  year — Madame  Martin  would  lay  va- 
rious little  plots  and  schemes,  rather  tending  to  injure  the 
•comforts  or  interests  of  Madame  Legrand  ;  to  deprive  her  of  a 
good  dinner,  or  prevent  her  furnished  apartment  from  being 
let,  but  even  when  the  said  plots  and  schemes  were  brought 
home  to  her  in  the  most  evident  manner,  she  scorned  to  look 
disconcerted. 

"  She  was  an  old  woman  of  the  world,"  she  said,  triumph- 
antly.    This  explained  everything. 

These  two  excellent  friends  had,  however,  set  their  heart 
on  a  common  object :  the  marriage  of  Virginie  Martin  with 
some  individual,  no  matter  who,  rich  and  high  enough  to  be- 
come the  husband  of  a  pretty  and  charming  girl.  That  Mad- 
ame Martin,  who  had  only  a  very  slender  annuity,  should  wish 
to  get  lier  daughter  advantageously  married  was  natural 
enough,  but  that  an  old  experienced  woman  of  the  world,  like 
Madame  Legrand,  should  trouble  herself  about  the  marriage 
of  any  girl,  however  charming,  might  seem  strange,  but  for 
the  following  reasons. 

Madame  Legrand  was  something  of  an  epicure,  and  she 
liked  a  wedding  dinner ;  then  she  also  liked  a  handsome 
present,  and  every  one  knows,  or  ought  to  know,  that  the  per- 
sons who  help  to  tie  the  knot  of  a  French  marriage  invariably 
receive  a  cadeau  proportionate  to  the  value  of  the  bargain ;  for 
a  bargain  it  is  in  every  sense  of  the  word. 

But  notwithstanding  the  zeal  of  the  two  ladies,  Virginie 
remained  unmarried.  In  vain  had  the  unhappy  girl  been 
actually  ofi'ered — for  it  was  no  less — to  every  marriageable 
man  in  the  vicinity,  for  the  last  three  years ;  she  was  still 
Virginie  Martin,  and  yet  she  was  pretty,  and,  as  we  already 
said,  very  charming. 

Madame  Martin  was  beginning  to  despair,  and  Madame 
Legrand  had  prophetically  exclainitd  tbat  she  should  never 
partake  of  Virginie's  wedding  dinner,  when  the  former  lady 


SEVEN   TEARS.  305 

uiade  an  unexpected  discovery,  which  resuscitated  her  dying 
holies,  and  filled  her  maternal  heart  with  joy. 

"  Madame  Legrand,"  said  she,  entering  her  friend's  little 
parlour  one  afternoon,  and  addressing  the  other  lady,  who  was 
taking  her  after-dinner  repose  near  the  open  window,  "  Mad- 
ame Legrand,  we  have  been  acquainted  these  twenty  years* 
we  are  both  old  women  of  the  world,  and  so  what  is  the  use  of 
finessing  with  one  another  ?  I  might  saj'^  I  called  here  to  see 
how  you  were  after  your  bad  cold,  but  I  shall  do  no  sucb 
thing;  no,  my  good  Madame  Legrand,  I  call  to  tell  you  I  am 
coming  to  dine  to-morrow  with  you ;  Virginie,  of  course,  ac- 
companies me.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  "  She  folded 
her  arms,  and  drew  herself  up  with  a  triumphant  air.  Mad- 
ame Legrand  coughed  a  reserved  alarmed  cough,  and  held  her- 
self on  the  defensive.  Her  friend  smiled  and  quietly  con- 
tinued : 

"  I  have  already  ordered  a  leg  of  mutton,  and  seen  about 
the  poultry  and  the  dessert.  But  it  shall  be  a  very  plain 
meal — extremely  so.  One  must  not  overdo  the  thing,  Madame 
Legrand." 

Madame  Legrand  took  an  evasive  half-dignified  air.  She 
did  not  exactly  understand  her  friend.  She  was  very  dull  of 
apprehension  sometimes.  Might  she  know  exactly  what 
Madame  Martin  meant  ?  Madame  Martin  nodded  ;  confessed 
the  request  was  reasonable,  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  that  of 
her  friend,  took  a  confidential  attitude,  and  whispered  very 
significantly : 

"  You  see  that  gentleman  walking  in  your  little  garden,  do 
you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  I  see  Monsieur  Edouard  Lefevre,  my  lodger." 

"  Then  you  behold  a  most  unhappy  man.  Look  at  him,  is 
there  not  grief,  yes,  deep  grief,  written  on  that  face  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  does  not  look  merry  ;  but  what  about  it  ?  " 

"  Merry  !  I  should  like  to  know  how  a  man  who  has  lost 
two  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year  could  look  merry  1  " 

Madame  Legrand  opened  her  eyes.  Her  friend  smiled 
with  the  consciousness  of  superior  knowledge,  and  laconically 
informed  her  that  the  simpl-e  unassuming  man,  who  had  been 
lodging  with  her  for  the  last  week,  was  no  other  than  the  rich 
Edouard  Lefevre  from  Lyons;  that  unhappy  merchant  who 
had  recently  lost  in  railroads  the  heavy  sum  above  mentioned. 

"  I  had  it  all  from  my  cousin,  Theophile  Durand,"  she 
added,  "  who  had  it  all  from  M.  Lefevre's  aunt,  and  who   took 


306  SEVEN    YEARS. 

a  fiacre  to  come  and  tell  nie  that  the  unhappy  man  was  here  in 
your  house  endeavouring  to  calm  his  mind." 

"  But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  to-morrow's  dinner  ?  " 
asked  Madame  Legrand,  without  losing  sight  of  the  original 
question. 

"  My  dear  friend,  that  unhappy  man  needs  society ;  it  will 
cheer  him." 

Madame  Legrand  looked  sceptical.  "  "Well,  it  really  is  no 
use  to  feign  with  an  old  woman  of  the  world  like  you,''  said 
Madame  Martin,  with  philosophic  candour,  "  the  fact  is,  I  want 
him  to  see  Virginie." 

"  But  if  he  is  bankrupt !  A  propos,  I  hope  he  will 
pay  me  !  " 

"Be  quite  easy,"  replied  Madame  Martin,  with  a  sagacious 
smile,  "  it  is  quite  true  he  has  lost  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  income — but  then  he  has  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year 
left.      His  aunt  said  so." 

"  I  would  not  trust  his  aunt  if  I  were  you,"  said  Madame 
Legrand,  looking  uneasy;  "  indeed,  now  that  I  know  this  I 
mean  to  ask  him  to  pay  in  advance  ;  ay,  and  this  evening  too." 
Madame  Martin  was  greatly  alarmed;  it  required  all 
her  eloquence  and  tact  to  persuade  her  friend  that  Monsieur 
Lefcvre  had  really  a  handsome  fortune  left,  but  she  at  length 
succeeded ;  and,  a  much  easier  task,  she  convinced  her  that  it 
was  highly  proper  to  give  him  a  dinner  at  her,  Madame  Mar- 
tin's, expense,  in  order  to  cheer  him  in  his  solitude. 

"Virginie,  do  you  mean  to  dress  to-day?"  drily  said 
Madame  Martin  to  her  daughter,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fol- 
lowing day. 

The  young  girl  did  not  answer.  She  sat  near  the  table, 
her  blow  rested  on  her  folded  hands  ;  her  whole  attitude  sad, 
listless,  and  drooping. 

"  Come,  make  haste  "  urged  her  mother,  "  look  at  your 
dress  !  how  nice  it  is  !  " 

The  young  girl  slowly  raised  her  glance.  She  was  a  pretty, 
elegant  blonde,  with  soft  blue  eyes  and  delicate  features ;  but 
her  look  was  troubled,  and  her  face  was  pale.  She  gave  a  dis- 
tressed look  at  the  clear  white  muslin  robe  her  mother  dis- 
played with  evident  complacency,  then  resumed  her  old 
attitude,  and  wept  bitterly.  The  poor  girl  knew  that  dress 
well,  far  too  well.  To  her  it  was  the  symbol  of  degradation, 
mortification,  and  shame.  Whenever  a  new  star  dawned  on 
the  matrimonial  horizon,  Virginie  Martin  had  to  put  on  the 
clear  white  muslin — nothing  became  her  so  well — and  display 


SEVEN   YEABS.  307 

to  the  best   advantage  whatever  attractions  nature   had  given 
ter.     Her  -whole  soul  revolted  against  this,  but  her  mother  ^ 
was  inflexible,  and  poor  Virginie  was  gentle  and  pretty — she 
always  yielded.     On  the  present  occasion   she  proved  more 
than  usually  rebellious. 

"  I  cannot  and  I  will  not,"  she  passionately  cried, 
"  Heaven  help  me  !  is  thei-e  nothing  I  can  do  ?  let  me  be  a 
milliner,  a  dressmaker,  anything  you  like,  but  let  me  earn  my 
bread,  and  not  do  such  things."  Broken  sobs  impeded  her 
utterance. 

"  A  milliner,  a  dressmaker  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  Martin^ 
with  sorrowful  indiguation,  "  and  it  is  my  daughter,  Virginie 
Martin,  who  has  such  ideas,  svich  sentiments  !     For  shame  !  " 

"  I  am  not  ashamed  of  them,"  replied  the  young  girl,  look- 
ing up  with  flushed  cheek  and  kindling  glance,  "  but  I  am 
ashamed  whenever  I  put  on  that  abominable  di-ess." 

"  An  exquisite  white  muslin,  emblem  of  virgin  innocence, 
and  youthful  freshness,  and  transparency  of  feeling ;  she  calls 
it  abominable  !  " 

"  Yes,  abominable  !  for  whenever  I  have  put  it  on  it  has 
been  to  see  myself  ofi"ered  to  some  man  or  other.  Good  heav- 
ens !  the  thought  of  it  makes  me  feel  hot !  AVhen  will  women 
cease  to  be  so  cheap  ?  '' 

"  When  they  have  money,"  philosophically  replied  the  old 
woman  of  the  world  ;  "  I  am  really  ashamed  of  your  ignorance, 
Virginie:  my  daughter,  not  to  know  better  !  As  to  your  being 
'  ofi'ered,'  as  you  choose  to  call  it,  I  do  not  see  how  it  can  be 
helped,  whilst  men  are  what  they  are.  Entre  nous,  my  dear, 
men  are  regular  Turks,  and  every  man  thinks  himself  a  Sultan 
at  the  very  least.  They  like  to  have  women  ofi'ered  to  them, 
and  to  pick  and  choose.  My  dear,  let  them  ;  tve  get  the  best 
of  it  in  the  end,  and,  as  the  old  proverb  says :  those  who  laugh 
last  laugh  best.  So  put  on  your  dress,  and  look  as  pretty  as 
you  can." 

A  fresh  burst  of  tears  was  the  only  reply  this  maternal  ex- 
hortation received. 

"  That  is  it !  "  indignantly  exclaimed  Madame  Martin, 
"  cry,  ridden  your  eyes,  make  yourself  look  pale,  ill,  and  sulky, 
as  you  always  do  on  those  occasions ;  no  wonder  the  men  will 
not  have  so  wan  and  lachryujose  a  creature  !  Come,  do  you 
mean  to  put  on  that  dress  ?  " 

Virginie  shook  her  head.  "  She  could  not,"  she  said,  "  she 
felt  she  could  not."  Madame  Martin  was  too  old  a  woman  of 
the  world  not  to  know  the  value  of  a  little  pathos  now  and 


808  SEVEN   YEARS. 

then.  She  therefore  burst  into  tears,  and  lamented  her  fate 
.in  pathetic  accents.  "  She  had  a  daughter,  and  had  reared 
her  up  for  this  !  She  had  done  everything  to  get  her  married, 
was  it  her  fault  if  men  were  not  willing  ?  Slie  had  carried 
her  maternal  devotion  to  the  point  of  laying  out  twenty  francs 
■ — it  would  not  come  to  less — for  a  dinner  to  be  given  by 
Madame  Legrand,  in  order  that  Virginie  miglit  meet  Monsieur 
Lefevre,  and  now  Virginie  would  not  go,  and  her  money  was 
thrown  away,  and  she  was  a  most  unhappy  mother  !  " 

Virginie  resisted  a  while  longer,  but  at  length  this  matter 
ended,  as  usual,  by  her  putting  on  the  white  muslin,  and  agree- 
ing to  accompany  her  mother. 

On  entering  the  little  parlour  of  Madame  Legrand,  Madame 
Martin  was  struck  with  dismay  to  perceive  two  ladies,  one 
young,  and  a  very  pretty  brunette,  already  seated  there. 
Madame  Legrand  apologetically  whispered  that  her  sister-in- 
law  and  niece  having  unexpectedly  called  upon  her,  she  could 
not,  of  course,  do  less  than  ask  them  to  dinner,  but  then,  of 
course,  she  would  divide  the  expenses  with  her  friend. 

Madame  Martin  was  too  old  a  woman  of  the  world  to  be- 
lieve a  word  of  this.  Tiie  sister-in-law  and  niece  resided  ten 
leagues  away,  they  called  twice  a  year  on  Madame  Legrand ; 
never  more ;  they  had  evidently  been  summoned  post  haste, 
lest  such  a  prize  should  go  out  of  the  family.  It  was  as  clear 
as  noonday.  Even  for  an  old  woman  of  the  world  this  was 
rather  hard  to  bear,  and  then,  to  make  matters  worse,  this 
perfidious  Madame  Legrand  had  made  the  young  girls  sit  side 
by  side.  How  could  the  pale,  inanimate  Virginie  stand  a 
comparison  with  the  brilliant  bloom  and  engaging  vivacity  of 
her  rival  ?  Madame  Martin  internally  gave  it  up,  and  waited 
with  the  resignation  of  despair  for  the  entrance  of  Monsieur 
Lefevre.  But  Monsieur  Lefevre  did  not  come.  "  A  sudden 
fit  of  indisposition  deprived  him  of  the  j)leasure  of  dining  with 
the  ladies." 

Madame  Legrand  looked  disconcerted  ;  her  niece  pouted; 
Madame  Martin  triumphed,  and  Virginie  looked  enchanted 
and  charming.  Relieved  from  the  dreadful  apprehension  of 
meeting  the  stranger,  she  became  so  gay  and  pretty,  that 
Madame  Martin  sighed  to  think  how  very  provoking  it  was  in 
her  never  to  look  so  at  the  proper  times.  She  gave  her  a  good 
lecture  on  the  subject  in  the  garden,  whither  they  all  repaired 
after  dinner.  Madame  Legrand,  her  sister-in-law,  and  niece, 
held  a  consultation  apart,  whilst  Madame  Martin  and  Virginia 
were  unceremoniously  left  to  their  own  society. 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  309 

"  Virginie,"  pathetically  said  the  maman,  "  do  you  wish  to 
break  my  heart  ?  " 

"  Is  it  my  fault,  maman,  if  Monsieur  Lefevre  was  ill  ?  " 

"  But  if  he  had  come,  good  gracious,  if  he  had  come ! 
Why,  when  the  door  opened  once,  you  sank  back  on  your  seat 
white  and  trembling.  For  heaven's  sake — I  hope  you  feel 
better,  sir,"  she  suddenly  added,  in  a  soft,  insinuating  voice. 

Virginie  looked  up,  and  perceived  a  serious-looking  man 
of  thirty  or  so  standing  near  them.  He  paused  on  being  thus 
addressed,  and  though  not  without  a  keen  look  of  surprise  at 
the  elder  lady,  he  politely  thanked  her,  and  said  that  he  felt 
much  better  indeed.  He  looked  inclined  to  walk  on,  but 
Madame  Martin  was  not  going  to  let  him  escape  thus;  she 
gently  compelled  Virginie  to  resume  the  ])l;iee  by  her  side 
which  the  young  girl  had  shrinkingly  left.  The  path  was  nar- 
row. Monsieur  Lefevre  could  not  attempt  to  move  on  without 
evident  rudeness  ;  he  did  not  seek  to  do  so,  but  whilst  Madame 
Martin  assailed  him  with  a  torrent  of  fluent  speech,  he  looked 
at  her  daughter  with  much  attention.  Evening  was  closing  in, 
but  they  stood  face  to  face  within  a  few  paces  of  each  otiier  : 
be  could  see  her  well.  Virginie  was  not  pale  now  ;  she  was 
crimson ;  indeed  her  agitation  was  so  evident,  that  it  was  that, 
much  more  than  her  beauty,  which  attracted  the  gentleman's 
attention.  He  asked  himself  with  some  wonder  what  there 
was  in  his  presence  to  produce  such  emotion,  and  if  all  Pari- 
sian girls  were  so.  He  was  not  left  long  in  doubt,  for  Mad- 
ame Martin  having  imprudently  raised  her  voi<;e,  tlie  sound 
reached  the  ears  of  Madame  Legrand,  who  rushed  panting  to 
the  rescue  with  her  blooming,  smiling  niece.  Monsieur  Lefe- 
vre looked  annoyed,  but  he  was  now  fairly  surrounded  ;  there 
was  no  help  for  it.  He  submitted  with  tolerable  composure; 
walked  up  and  down  the  garden  with  the  ladies,  and  probably 
began  to  understand  something  of  what  was  going  on,  for,  as 
he  saw  Madame  Legrand  bring  forward  her  niece  on  every  oc- 
casion, and  Madame  Martin  pertinaciously  offer  poor  Virginie 
to  his  notice,  a  scarcely  perceptible,  though  sarcastic,  smile 
appeared  once  or  twice  on  his  pale  firm  lips. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  go  in,"  at  length  kindly  said 
Madame  Legrand,  who  perceived  with  some  alarm  that  her 
guest  looked  ratber  more  at  the  pale  Virginie  than  at  her  bril- 
liant niece,  "  that  dear  Virginie  is  so  delicate  that  the  night 
air  might  afiect  her  ;  indeed  she  looks  very  pale  as  it  is  !  " 
Madame  Martin  indignantly  begged  to  inform  her  friend 


310  SEVEN   YEARS. 

ttafc  the  health  of  Vh-ginie  was  excellent.     Virginie  had  never 
been  ill  since  she  had  the  measles. 

"  Which  must  have  been  a  good  while  ago,"  charitably  said 
M  ad  ame  L  egran  d . 

Madame  Martin  scorned  to  answer  the  calumny.  It  re- 
futed itself  or  rather  Virgiuie's  youthful  face  refuted  it 
completely. 

They  went  in  ;  Madame  Legrand  asked  her  niece  to  sing, 
and  Mademoiselle  unhesitatingly  attacked  a  magnificent  solo, 
in  which  she  introduced  a  few  superfluous  ornaments,  that  did 
very  well  indeed. 

"  I  believe  Mademoiselle  Martin  does  not  sing  ?  "  kindly 
said  Madame  Lesrand. 

"  Yes  she  does,"  shortly  replied  her  indignant  mother. 

Virginie  gave  her  a  look  of  terror.  She  never  had  sung  in 
company  in  her  life,  and  knew  nothing  of  music.  But  her 
mother  was  roused  and  pitiless.  She  led  her  to  the  piano,  and 
stood  by  her  side  to  encourage  her,  and,  if  needs  were,  to  en- 
force obedience.  Virginie  made  an  attempt,  but  her  voice 
broke  down  almost  immediately.  '' There,  you  have  finished 
it  now,"  savagely  whispered  her  mother,  hurrying  her  out  of 
*;he  room  amidst  the  ill-repressed  titter  of  the  Legrands. 

It  certainly  did  not  appear  that  M.  Theophile  Durand  had 
any  particular  share  in  the  disasters  of  this  day,  save  as  the 
originator  of  the  campaign  which  ended  in  such  signal  defeat. 
But  this  proved  enough,  and  more  than  enough,  for  mother 
and  daughter.  Virginie  scarcely  reached  home  when  she  threw 
herself  into  a  chair,  burst  into  tears,  and  esclaimed  :  "  I  de- 
test Monsieur  Durand  " 

"  A  mean,  spiritless  fellow  to'  allov/  his  female  relatives  to 
be  insulted  in  that  way  !  "  cried  Madame  Martin  in  an  excit- 
ed tone ;  "  but  he  shall  see,  he  shall  see  !  "  She  resumed  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  which  she  had  put  away,  and  left  the  room 
without  any  other  word. 

Monsieur  Theophile  Durand  was  in  his  first  nap,  when  he 
was  roused  by  a  violent  ringing  and  knocking  at  his  room  door ; 
for  his  apartmeiit  consisted  of  one  chamber  and  a  closet.  He 
sat  up  in  bed  and  listened,  slily  feigning  deafness.  The  ring- 
ing was  violently  repeated,  and  accompanied  by  something  so 
like  the  kick  of  a  shoe,  that  Monsieur  Durand  wrathfully  cried 
out : 

"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

"  Open,  sir  !  "  indignantly  exclaimed  the  shrill  voice  of  Ma- 
dame Martin. 


SEVEN    YEARS.  oil 

Monsieur  Durand  chuclcled  with  glee,  to  think  that  he  had 
so  good  an  excuse  not  to  admit  his  cousin. 

"  My  dear  relative,"  he  sweetly  replied,  "  I  should  be 
charmed,  delighted,  to  let  you  in,  but  my  night-cap  is  on.  I 
need  say  no  more  to  a  lady  of  your  quick  and  delicate  percep- 
tions. " 

"  Your  night-cap,  sir  !  how  dare  you  talk  of  your  night-cap 
to  me  ?     What  have  I  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

''  Nothing,  thank  heaven  I  "  said  Monsieur  Durand  in  a  low 
tone. 

"  Well,  sir,"  resumed  Madame  Martin's  voice,  "  I  shall  go, 
as  you  do  not  choose  to  let  me  in.  Indeed  I  have  only  this 
much  to  say.  Having  been  so  ill  advised  as  to  act  on  the  in- 
furmation  you  gave  us,  my  daughter  Virginie  and  I  have  been 
drawn  into  expense,  and  have  received  iusults,  from  which 
you,  sir,  will  not  have  the  spirit  to  avenge  us.    Good  night,  sir." 

Her  voice  was  heard  no  more,  and  Monsieur  Durand  fell 
in  a  troubled  sleep,  from  wliich  he  awoke  three  times  in  a  cold 
perspiration,  having  dreamed  each  time  that  Madame  Martin, 
after  forcing  her  way  into  his  apartment,  insisted  no  longer  on 
his  marrying  Virginie,  but  on  his  marrying  her^  as  a  slight 
atonement  for  the  many  wrongs  he  had  inflicted  on  her  feelings 
and  her  pocket. 

Monsieur  Theophile  would  have  been  calmer  in  his  mind 
if  he  had  known  the  unexpected  turn  affairs  had  taken. 

The  feuds  of  Madame  Legrand  and  Madame  Martin  never 
lasted.  War  is  unprofitable,  and  these  two  old  women  of  the 
world  knew  the  value  and  the  blessings  of  peace. 

Madame  Legrand  quickly  found  out  tliat  her  niece  would 
not  do,  and  veered  back  to  Virginie,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Indeed,  with  such  zeal  did  she  enter  into  the  plans  she  had 
done  her  best  to  frustrate,  that  she  asked  Virginie  to  spend  a 
week  with  her.  The  young  girl  made  some  resistance,  but  it 
was  not  quite  so  strong  as  might  have  been  expected  from  her 
previous  reluctance  to  put  on  the  white  muslin.  A  word  of 
authority  from  Madame  Martin  reduced  her  to  obedience. 

For  two  days  Madame  Martin,  who  was  supposed  to  be  in 
the  country,  kept  herself  locked  up.  Early  on  the  morning  of 
the  third  day  she  slipped  over  to  xMadame  Legrand's,  and  was 
admitted  to  a  mysterious  interview  in  that  lady's  bedroom. 

"  And  how  are  matters  going  on  ?  "  asked  Madame  Martin. 

"  Well,  well,"  calmly  replied  Madame  Legrand.  "  Mon- 
sieur Lefevre  is  enamoured,  I  saw  that  from  the  first." 


SVji  .^lEVEN    TEARS. 

"  Ana  how  clOcS  Yirginie  beliave  ?  "  asked  Madame  Mar- 
tin :  "  like  a  fool  ?  ' 

"  Not  exactly.  Slie  does  not  give  Monsieur  Lefevre  many 
opportunities  of  meeting  her :  but  I  rather  fancy  that  her 
timidity  and  bashfulness  are  advantageous.  He  already  lends 
her  books." 

"  That's  good,"  approvingly  said  Madame  Martin. 

"  Excellent.  And  now,  my  dear  friend,  if  it  is  to  be  a 
match,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  what  I  should  like.  I  am 
moderate  by  nature.  A  dozen  of  silver  forks  and  spoons  will 
do." 

"  My  dear  Madame  Lcgrand,"  replied  Madame  Martin, 
with  a  placid  nod,  "  nothing  can  repay  a  friendship  like  yours. 
If  Virginie  becomes  Madame  Lefevre,  she  owes  it  to  you." 

"  Perhaps  your  cousin  might  think,"  began  Madame  Le- 
grand — 

"  He  !  "  interrupted  Madame  Martin,  with  great  scorn,  "  1 
should  like  to  see  liim,  expecting  anything.  The  mean  little 
fellow  !  " 

With  this  eulogy  Madame  Martin  went  back  to  her  apart- 
ment, but  lest  her  dear  friend  Madame  Legrand  should  take 
a  real  fancy  to  send  back  Virginie,  she,  Madame  Martin, 
thought  it  her  wisest  course  to  go  oft  to  Neuilly  on  a  visit  to 
an  aged  aunt,  who  was  too  far  gone  in  age  to  protest  against 
the  intrusion.  What  could  she  say,  moreover,  when  her  niece 
entered  the  house  with  the  avowed  intention  of  making  her 
comfortable  ? 

"  I  do  not  see,  aunt,  why  I  should  not  stay  with  you,  now 
that  Virginie  is  going  to  get  married,"  she  said  graciously, 

"  Is  she  going  to  get  married  ?  "  asked  the  aunt,  lifting  up 
a  feeble  head,  "  and  with  whom  'i  " 

"  With  Monsieur  Lefevre  of  Lyons,"  replied  Madame 
Martin. 

"  Not  the  one  who  has  two  wives  already,"  said  her  aunt, 
musingly. 

"  Two  wives ! "  echoed  Madame  Martin,  in  a  hollow 
voice. 

"  Yes,  he  was  married  abroad,  and  he  married  another  lady 
in  France,  and  there  was  a  great  law-suit  about  which  was  the 
right  wife." 

"  It  cannot  be  that  one,"  said  Madame  Martin  ;  "  I  will 
never  believe,"  she  added,  raising  her  voice,  as  if  the  culprit 
were  within  hearing,  "  I  will  never  believe  that,  bad  as  he  is, 


SEVEN  >:eaes.  313 

my  cousin  Theopliile  Duraiid  could   help   to  delude  Virgiiiie 
iuto  such  a  marriage  as  that." 

The  aunt  burst  iuto  a  croaking  laugh. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  cried,  lifting  up  her  hands,  "  if  le  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  it  I  consider  it  a  .settled  thing.  Poor  Vir- 
ginie,  poor  girl." 

It  was  night,  but  Madame  Martin's  resolve  was  taken  in  a 
second.  She  sent  for  a  cab,  jumped  iuto  it,  and  drove  to  her 
cousin's  door,  for  wrath  proved  stronger,  in  this  instance,  than 
maternal  anxiety. 

Unconscious  of  the  brooding  storm.  Monsieur  Theophile 
Durand,  who  was  an  economical  man,  was  cooking  his  dinner 
on  a  stove  in  the  closet,  wiien  a  mild,  deceitful  ring  at  the 
door  induced  him  to  open  it.  In  bounced  Madame  Martin, 
wrathful  and  smilina;. 

"  Good  afternoon,  sir,"  she  said  sweetly,  "I  hope  you  are 
well,  sir  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,"  replied  Monsieur  Durand.  "  I*ray  be 
seated." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  a  carriage  is  waiting  for  me  at  the  door. 
Perhaps  you  will  kindly  answer  me  this  question,  sir  :  How 
many  wives,  to  your  knowledge,  has  Monsieur  Lefevre  got  ?  " 

"  Tw — 0,"  gasped  Monsieur  Durand,  "  but  the  second  is 
the  right  one.     I  learned  it  yesterday." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  I  have 
it  from  your  own  lips,  on  your  confession  that  you  advised 
me  to  marry  my  daughter  to  a  man  that  has  two  wives 
living." 

"  My  dear  cousin,  I  thought  him  single." 

"  Did  you  inquire  ?  "  was  the  stern  rejoinder. 

"  No— 0." 

"  Then  how  dare  you  speak  of  Monsieur  Lefevre  to  me, 
sir?" 

"  But  you  know  all  about  it  !  "  desperately  exclaimed 
Monsieur  Durand. 

"  I  sir,  I  !     Do  you  mean  to  add  insult  to  injury  ?  " 

"  But  when  you  came  the  other  evening  and  rang,  when  I 
had  my  night-cap  on,  you  knew  it  surely  !  " 

Madame  Martin  loftily  begged  he  would  neither  recall 
that  evening  nor  his  conduct  thereon,  and  again  asked  if  he 
meant  to  add  insult  to  injury. 

Monsieur  Durand,  who  was  losing  his  temper,  testily  replied 
that  he  meant  to  eat  his  dinner,  and  unceremoniously  returned 
to  the  closet  and  to  his  cooking. 
14 


314  SEVEN    YEAE^. 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  resumed  the  voice  of  Madame  Martin 
from  the  outer  room,  "  very  well,  sir,  you  v/ill  remember  this." 

The  slam  of  a  door  told  Monsieur  Durand  that  she  was 
gone.  His  first  selfish,  natural  feeling  was  one  of  self-congrat- 
ulation at  escaping  her  tongue,  and  being  allowed  to  eat  his 
hard-earned  dinner  in  peace.  Then  came  remorse  and  concern 
at  the  error  into  which  he  had  fallen,  and  an  earnest  desire  to 
mend  matters,  so  far  as  they  could  still  be  mended. 

Monsieur  Tht-ophile  Durand  had  a  good  deal  of  that  nerv- 
ous timidity  which  lies  most  in  manner,  and  does  not  exclude 
courage.  His  bravery,  for  lying  dormant,  was  none  the  less 
real ;  he  now  got  excited  about  the  wrongs  of  Virginie,  and 
resolved  to  right  them  without  loss  of  time. 

"  The  cold-hearted  villain  !  "  he  exclaimed,  seizing  his  hat 
and  cane,  and  hurrying  out,  "  did  he  think  that  poor  child  had 
no  protector,  no  frieiid  ?     AVe  shall  see — we  shall  see." 

Monsieur  Durand  lived  at  no  great  distance  from  Madame 
Legrand's  house.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  reached  her  door, 
and  was  knocking  violently.  A  frightened-looking  servant 
answered  the  calk 

"  Madame  is  out,"  she  said. 

"  I  want  to  see  Monsieur  Lefevre,"  sternly  replied  The- 
ophile ;   "lead  me  into  his  presence." 

The  servant  afterwards  declared  he  looked  quite  awful, 
and  that  resistance  was  out  of  the  question.  Without  even 
asking  his  name,  she  opened  a  door  and  ushered  him  into 
the  room  where  Monsieur  Lefevre  was  sitting  with  Virginie. 

This  requires  explanation.  Monsieur  Lefevre,  as  Mad- 
ame Legrand  plainly  saw,  was  very  much  smitten  with  her 
yOung  friend,  and  readily  availed  himself  of  every  opportu- 
nity of  meeting  her,  which  the  elder  lady  afforded  him.  From 
lending  books,  he  soon  came  to  giving  Virginie  music  les- 
sons; Madame  Legrand  was  jDresent,  of  course,  but  the  les 
sons  were  long,  and  she  sometimes  left  the  room,  to  return 
almost  immediately,  it  is  true.  But  this  day  Madame  Le- 
grand left  and  did  not  return  ;  she  forgot  Virginie,  propriety, 
and  prudence.  Her  cook  had  allowed  her  apricot  preserves 
to  burn ;  an  unmistakable  odour  reached  her  in  the  drawing- 
room.  She  rose  precipitately,  rushed  down  stairs,  and  found 
the  jam  on  the  fire  and  the  kitchen  deserted.  The  faithless 
cook  was  flirting  with  the  butcher's  boy  at  the  garden  gate, 
"  and  my  apricots,  my  most  valuable  apricots,"  as  Madame 
Legrand  afterwards  said  in  relating  this  lamentable  occurrence 
to  a  friend,  "  were  left  to  their  fate." 


SEVEN   YEARS.  315 

Desperate  emergencies  inspire  desperate  resolves.  Madame 
Legrand  took  up  the  hissing  jam,  called  the  cook,  gaA'e  her 
warning  on  the  spot,  then  solemnly  bade  the  housemaid  deny 
her  to  the  whole  world. 

"  Give  me  a  white  apron,"  she  said,  "  and  no  matter  who 
comes,  say  I  am  not  at  home." 

Thus  Virgii:ie  remained  alone  with  Monsieur  Lefevre. 
Neither  the  teacher  nor  the  pupil  were  at  first  conscious  of 
this  important  fact.  Monsieur  Lefevre,  happening  to  turn 
his  head  round,  first  perceived  that  Madame  Legrand  was 
gone.  Virginie  next,  appealing  to  that  lady,  became  aware 
of  her  absence,  and  of  what  was  infinitely  worse  in  decorous 
France,  that  she,  Virginie  Martin,  was  alone  with  her  music- 
master.  What  should  she  do  ?  To  leave  precipitately  might 
look  like  an  afiectation  of  2-»rudery,  to  remain  might  make  Mon- 
sieur Lefevre  hold  her  forward  or  imprudent.  Still  some-thing 
must  be  done.  She  hesitated  a  while,  then  at  length,  and 
with  a  painful  blush  that  betrayed  her  embarrassment,  she 
rose,  and  closing  the  piano,  said  as  calmly  as  she  could. 

"  I  have  troubled  you  enough  to  day  :  Madame  Legrand 
may  want  me  below,  I  shall  go  and  see." 

Monsieur  Lefevre  looked  undecided ;  but  by  the  time 
that  Virginie  had  crossed  the  room  and  reached  th<j  door,  his 
mind  was  made  up,  and  following  her  quickly,  he  arrested  her 
with  the  entreaty : 

"  May  I  request  that  you  will  hear  me  for  a  few  moments  ?  " 
Virginie  remained  with  her  hand  on  the  lock,  and  by  her  si- 
lence gave  consent. 

What  passed,  and  what  Monsieur  Lefevre  said,  need  not 
be  told.  Of  course  it  was  a  declaration  of  love  and  an  oifer 
of  marriage.  Virginie's  reply  we  need  not  record,  of  course 
it  was  modest  assent. 

Love  is  a  beautiful  thing ;  but  for  a  man  to  declare  his 
afi"ection  to  a  woman  is  by  no  means  so  delightful  a  task  as 
might  be  imagined,  and  for  a  woman  to  hear  the  aforesaid  dec- 
laration, even  when  it  comes  from  a  preferred  lover,  is  not  al- 
ways so  pleasant  as  might  seem.  It  is  often  quite  a  relief 
when  a  third  unconscious  person  steps  in  and  breaks  on  tl  e 
awkward,  howsoever  rapturous,  silence  that  must  needs  follow. 

On  the  general  principle,  therefore,  Theophile  Durand 
ought  to  have  been  welcome  to  both  Virginie  and  her  lover; 
but  strange  to  say,  whether  his  interruption  came  a  little  too 
soon,  that  is  to  say,  before  the  rapture  had  subsided  and  the 
awkwardness  had  come,  or  a  little  too  late,  that   is,  after  the 


316  SEVEN   TEAES. 

said  awkwardness  was  quite  over  and  his  presence  no  longei 
needed, — somehow  or  other,  in  short,  he  came  most  unseason- 
ably, startling  by  the  abruptness  of  his  entrance  the  fair  Vir- 
ginie,  who  was  sitting  on  a  sofa,  and  who,  on  seeing  him,  got 
up  with  a  little  scream,  and  considerably  annoying  her  com- 
panion, who  rose  more  slowly  from  the  conch,  and  returned 
with  interest  the  scowl  of  Monsieur  Theophile  Durand. 

"  Sir,"  he  sharply  said,  "  who  are  you  ?  What  do  you 
want  ?  " 

"  Virginie,  take  my  arm  and  leave  this  house,"'  was  Mon- 
sieur Durand's  indignant  reply. 

On  hearing  an  utter  stranger  call  his  mistress  by  her 
Christian  name.  Monsieur  Lefevre  reddened  and  looked 
angry.  Whilst  Virginie  made  a  motion  of  disgust,  and  said 
sharply  : 

"  I  beg,  Monsieur  Durand,  that  you  will  not  meddle  in  my 


concerns." 


"  Infatuated  girl!  "  said  Monsieur  Durand,  filled  with  pity 
for  her  blindness,  "  do  you  know  this  man  ?  Child,  he  has  two 
wives  living  !     Two  wives." 

Monsieur  Lefevre  laughed  scornfully. 

"  The  accusation  is  too  ridiculous  for  me  to  resent  it,"  he 
said,  calmly,  "  and  I  am  sure  Mademoiselle  'Martin  will  not 
credit  it  one  moment." 

"  Not  one,"  said  Virginie,  with  great  warmth,  "  not  one." 

"  I  repeat  it,  he  has  two  wives,"  said  Monsieur  Durand, 
warming  with  his  subject,  "  a  poor  young  Indian  girl,  whom 
be  married  in  the  South  Sea  Isles,  and  a  lady  of  Lyons — " 

"  Sir,  I  will  hear  no  more  on  this  absurd  matter,"  inter- 
rupted Monsieur  Lefevre,  waxing  wroth. 

"  Virginie,  take  my  arm  and  leave  the  house,"  said  Mon- 
sieur Durand ;  "  I  tell  you  this  man  has  two  wives,  that  your 
mother  is  distracted  with  grief  on  your  account,  and  that  she 
insists  on  your  leaving  this  wretched  house." 

Monsieur  Lefevre  looked  stiflF  and  offended. 

"  If  Madame  Martin  liaddone  me  the  honour  of  requesting 
a  personal  explanation,"  he  said,  "all  this  would  have  been 
avoided.  I  know,  of  course,  that  she  will  regret  her  precipi- 
tate conduct,  but  I  do  not  know  how  far  I  can  consent  to 
overlook  such  unmerited  insults." 

And  without  giving  Virginie  a  look,  Monsieur  Lefevre  left 
the  room.  The  young  girl  burst  into  tears;  but  Monsieur 
Durand  took  her  arm  and  led  her  away,  asking  indignantly  if 
she  regretted  not  marrying  a  man  who  had  two  wives  living. 


SEVEN    YEARS.  317 

It  was  lucky  Madame  Martin  lived  opposite ;  Virginie 
could  scarcely  cross  the  street,  and  Monsieur  Duraud  thought 
she  would  surely  faint  on  the  staircase.  He  was  the  moi-e 
frightened  that  Madame  Martin  was  out.  The  portress  had 
given  the  key  of  their  apartment  to  Virginie  as  they  passed 
her  lodge  ;  for  this  strange  mother,  instead  of  snatching  her 
child  from  the  fangs  of  the  bigamist,  had  left  word  that  she 
■^as  gone  back  to  Neuilly. 

"  There  is  something  dreadful  under  all  this,"  thought 
Monsieur  Durand,  foreseeing  a  calamity ;  "  1  must  lock  up 
Virginie,  take  a  cab  and  rush  off  to  Neuilly,  there  I  shall 
warn  Madame  Martin  that  I  have  rid  her  of  this  determined 
bigamist,  then,  ma  foi,  I  shall  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole 
affair."  So  said,  so  done.  Virginie,  though  weak  and  faint, 
declared  she  could  remain  alone,  and  Monsieur  Duraud  took 
care  to  lock  her  up  slyly,  and  walk  off'  with  the  key  in  his 
pocket.  A  cab  was  soon  found,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  Mon- 
sieur Durand  entered  the  house  of  Madame  Martin's  aunt. 

The  two  ladies  were  at  dinner  when  he  was  announced. 

"  Monsieur  Durand  !  "  said  Madame  Martii),  laying  down 
her  fork,  "  what  has  he  been  doing  ?  " 

"  Show  him  in — show  him  in,"  said  the  old  aunt,  with  fee- 
ble eagerness,  "  T  know  it  will  be  something  funny." 

In  walked  Monsieur  Durand,  cool,  dignified,  and  import- 
ant.    "  Madame,"  said  he  to  the  aunt,  "  I  must  apologize  " — 

"  Never  mind,  never  mind,"  she  interrupted,  "  what  is  it  ? 
— let  us  hear  it." 

"  Cousin,"  said  Theophile,  addressing  Madame  Martin, 
"  Virginie  is  safe." 

Virginie's  mother  heard  him  with  singular  calmness. 

"  What  about  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  locked  her  up  myself  in  your  home,"  pursued  Theo- 
phile, "  and  here  is  the  key  of  your  apartment." 

Madame  Martin  stared,  but  did  not  utter  one  word. 

"  I  may  say  that  I  have  saved  her,"  pursued  Monsieur 
Durand.  "  I  found  her  alone  with  that  wretch,  and  from  her 
gently-confused  look  I  have  no  doubt  he  had  been  making 
love  to  her.  But  I  exposed  him  to  her,  cousin ;  exasperated 
him  so  that  he  pretty  clearly  gave  her  up,  and  left  the  room 
in  a  great  pretence  of  anger*  upon  which  I  took  her  arm, 
forcibly  led  her  out,  locked  hev  up,  and  came  hei-e." 

Monsieur  Durand  wiped  his  forehead,  and  smiled  compla- 
cently on  his  cousin. 

"  I  knew  it !  "   cried  Madame    Martin,  striking  her  plate 


318  SEVEN    TEARS. 

v?ith  her  knife,  and  ttius  recklessly  breaking  it  in  the  exaspera 
tion  of  her  anger ;  "  I  knew  it — he  has  ruined  all — all  ruined 
— ruined."     Monsieur  Durand  heard  her  amazed. 

"  Miserable  man,"  she  resumed,  "  what  made  you  meddle  ? 
just  tell  me  that ;  could  you  not  let  a  mother  judge  for  her 
child  ?  " 

"  A  bigamist !  "  began  Monsieur  Durand. 

"  A  bigamist !  "  screamed  Madame  Martin,  "  he  a  bigamist, 
a  distinguished  Professor  of  Eloquence  in  the  University  of 
Louvain,  at  a  salary  of  six  thousand  francs  a  year,  if  not  ten, 
— he  a  bigamist?     Say  that  you  are  a  bigamist,  sir  !  " 

"I?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  bigamist,  I  maintain  it." 

Here  a  gurgling  noise  was  heard,  and  it  was  discovered  that 
the  old  aunt  was  choking-  in  her  arm-chair,  the  result  of  indis- 
creet  laughter. 

"  Wretch!  "  said  Madame  Martin,  flying  to  her  aid,  "did 
you  come  here  to  commit  murder  ?  " 

She  slapped  her  aunt  in  the  back,  until  the  venerable  lady 
came  round,  and  though  still  much  exhausted,  partly  recovered 
her  breath.  This  satisfactory  result  being  obtained,  Madame 
Martin  declared  that,  thanks  to  her  obliging  cousin  Monsieur 
Durand,  she  must  have  another  jaunt  to  Paris,  and,  without 
finishing  her  dinner,  she  threw  on,  rather  than  she  put,  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  and  accompanied  by  the  discomfited  Du- 
rand, she  walked  down  to  the  cab,  informing  the  cabman  that 
if  he  drove  quick  his  fare  would  be  doubled. 

Madame  Martin  was  too  much  exasperated  to  scold  her  un- 
fortunate cousin.  She  merely  asked,  with  keen  and  cutting 
irony,  how  a  man  of  his  bright  wit  and  experience  could  take 
a  refined  professor  of  eloquence  for  a  coarse  merchant  and  a 
bigamist,  and  how  he  dare  take  on  himself  to  lock  up  Virginie  ? 
and  as  Monsieur  Durand  was  too  much  cast  down  to  reply, 
she  maintained  a  sulky  silence  until  the  cab  stopped  at  her 
door.     She  then  alighted,  and  sternly  said : 

"  Here  we  part,  sir.  Your  conduct  I  will  not  qualify. 
You  have  covered  yourself  and  your  family  with  disgrace,  you 
have  done  your  best  to  prevent  my  daughter  Virginie  from 
making  a  most  excellent  and  desirable  match.  Your  work  is 
consummated.  Go  ;  I  request  that  I  may  never  see  your  face 
again." 

So  saying,  Madame  Martin  majestically  entered  the  house, 
slammed  the  door  in  her  cousin's  face,  and  left  him  the  cab  to 
pay. 


SEVEN    YEARS.  319 

"  Two  francs  for  going,  one  franc  for  waiting,  and  four 
francs  for  having  driven  fast  back  to  Paris  :  seven  francs,  be- 
sides what  Monsieur  chooses  to  give,"  added  the  cabman. 

"Take  it,  take  it  all!"  desperately  cried  Monsieur  Du- 
rand,  throwing  him  the  money  and  running  away. 


CHAPTER  in. 

That  Virglnie  was  married,  that  the  wedding  dinner  was 
choice,  that  the  bride  looked  lovely,  and  the  bridegroom 
thoroughly  blessed,  Theophile  Dm-and  learned  through  public 
report.  But  he  was  not  asked  to  the  marriage  ceremony,  he 
was  not  one  of  the  dinner  guests ;  "  and  though  without  me 
the  two  ungrateful  creatures  would  never  have  been  married," 
said  Monsieur  Theophile  Duraud,  "  I  received  my  usual  re- 
ward :  neglect.''' 

Under  this  mortifying  neglect  Monsieur  Durand  was  not 
doomed  to  linger.  His  new  cousin  euded  by  laughing  at  the 
bigamist  story ;  Virginie  was  too  happy  to  feel  any  resent- 
ment, and  Madame  Martin  magnanimously  declared  that  she 
forgave  her  cousin  :  in  short,  the  three  united  in  extending 
the  hand  of  peace  to  the  oiFender.  Monsieur  Theophile  Du- 
rand was  formally  asked  to  dinner:  being  a  good-natured  man 
and  having  at  heart  a  foolish  liking  for  his  kindred,  he  accept- 
ed the  invitation.  The  dinner  was  strictly  a  family  dinner, 
but  in  honour  of  the  reconciliation,  a  little  soiree  followed  it. 

"  And  now,"  thought  Theophile  Durand,  "  my  troubles  in 
this  quarter  are  surely  over.  Virginie  is  married.  I  have 
made  ample  apologies  to  her  husband,  who  is  a  very  agreeable 
fellow  when  he  is  not  excited,  and  Madame  Martin  does  not 
appear  to  entertain  the  least  matrimonial  design  upon  me. 
Yes,  I  think  I  am  really  safe  in  that  quarter."  So  thought 
and  soliloquized  the  deluded  man,  never  suspecting  the  world 
of  trouble  that  awaited  him. 

We  have  seen  that  the  reconciliation  dinner  to  which 
Th6ophile  Durand  had  been  asked  was  followed  by  an  evening 
reunion,  quite  select.  Madame  Martin  whispered  to  her 
cousin:  "I  could  not  ask  Madame  Le  Grrand  wov  thai  set. 
No,  my  son-in-law's  position  would  not  allow  it." 

The  reunion  was  more  than  select;  it  was  decidedly  thin, 
and  its  successor — for  Madame  Martin  insisted  that  Virginie 
ehould  receive  every  Thursday  evening — was  too  select  for 
Monsieur  Lefevre's  taste.     From  nine  o'clock  Madame  Martin 


320  SEVEN    YEARS. 

and  her  daughter  sat  in  the  gaily-lit  drawing-room,  vainly 
waiting  for  visitors,  who  came  not.  At  ten,  indeed,  Theophila 
Durand  made  his  appearance  in  correct  evening  costume,  but 
to  the  vexation  of  Virgiuie,  and  to  her  husband's  evident  an- 
noyance, not  a  soul  besides. 

As  eleven  struck  Monsieur  Lefevre  said  to  his  wife : 

"  Another  such  evening,  my  dear,  and  we  will  give  up 
parties." 

"  It  is  very  annoying,"  said  Virginie,  "  I  had  provided  re- 
freshments and  cakes, — and  now  they  are  wasted,  as  it  were. 
We  do  not  want  them." 

"  It  is  tiresome,"  said  Madame  Martin,  "  but  we  must  try 
again." 

Monsieur  Lefevre  did  not  answer.  It  was  plain  that  only 
politeness  prevented  him  from  giving  a  flat  denial, 

Madame  Martin  was  annoyed  at  the  evening's  failure,  and 
alarmed  for  the  future.  Her  son-in-law  was  kind  and  cour- 
teous, but  he  was  not  manageable.  He  had  already  shown  a 
strong  inclination  to  authority,  not  despotism  certainly, 
but  authority  under  any  aspect  was  distasteful  to  Madame 
Martin;  it  did  not  let  her  have  her  own  way,  which  she  was 
T^aturiilly  fond  of.  Like  a  prudent  woman  as  she  was,  she 
avoided  struggles  :  Monsieur  Lefevre  would  not  be  controlled 
or  managed,  but  he  might  be  led  gently.  To  lead  him  skil- 
fully was  therefore  her  object:  but  how  was  she  to  do  so  in 
this  present  matter  ? 

'•  What  can  I  do  if  the  people  will  not  come  ?  "  she  said 
confidentially  to  Theophile  Durand,  "  we  asked  twenty,  and 
you  see  not  one  came." 

"  Ask  forty,"  shrewdly  said  her  cousin. 

"  Ask  forty  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  Martin  with  a  start, 
"  and  where  should  we  put  them  ?  Our  drawing-room  is  so 
small." 

"  They  will  not  come,"  replied  Monsieur  Durand.  "  The 
twenty  did  not  come  ;  the  forty  will  no  more  come  than  the 
twenty ;  but  forty  people  will  have  had  the  compliment  paid 
them  of  being  asked,  and  you  will  not  have  had  the  trouble  of 
receiving  them." 

This  was  an  idea  :  Madame  Martin  felt  it  was  a  valuable 
one  too  ;  but  casting  an  alarmed  look  towards  her  son-in-law, 
she  whispered  to  Theophile  Durand :  "  Speak  low,  I  entreat 
you.  Edouard  is  so  peculiar,  so  matter-of-fact,  so  literal, 
that  he  would  never  ask  more  people  than  he  wished  to  see  \ 
but  I  shall  certainly  follow  the  plan  you  suggest ;  how  to  do 


SEVEN    TEAKS.  321 

SO   I  Jo  not  yet  know ;   but  where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a 
way." 

A  way  Madame  Martin  certainly  found.  She  asked  not 
forty,  but  fifty  people,  and  chose  them  so  judiciously,  that  when 
her  son-in-law  expressed  his  surprise  at  seeing  persons  drop  in 
whom  he  had  not  asked,  and  she  carelessly  replied  :  "  I  just 
asked  them  to  fill  up  in  case  the  others  should  not  come,"  he 
expressed  his  satisfaction  at  her  prudence. 

From  this  it  will  be  readily  gathered  that  the  third  party 
■was  more  successful  than  the  two  first.  Fortune  favoured,  in- 
deed, Theophile  Durand's  suggestion  :  fifteen  people  mustered; 
ten  belonged  to  the  original  twenty,  and  five  to  the  additional 
number  asked  by  Madame  Martin.  She  expressed  her  satis- 
faction to  Theophile  Durand,  by  asking  him  once  for  all. 

"  Yes,  cousin,"  she  said  suavely,  "  you  are  always  welcome. 
Virginie  and  her  husband  have  quite  a  regard  for  you,  and  I 
trust  you  know  and  feel  the  esteem  in  which  I  hold  you.  Our 
last  evening  flagged  a  little ;  my  floating  debt,  as  I  call  my  su- 
perfluous invites,  did  not  come  in  well  We  had  a  dearth  of 
black  coats.  Suppose  you  send  us  a  sprinkling  of  your  friends 
the  employes." 

"  With  great  pleasure,"  replied  Theophile  Durand,  who 
delighted  to  oblige,  and  in  his  generosity  he  forgot  the  sore- 
ness'^he  had  felt  on  seeing  Madame  Martin  plume  herself  on  the 
success  she  owed  to  his  advice,  but  which  she  did  not  dream  of 
acknowledging  to  her  son-in-law. 

He  set  to  work  that  same  day ;  he  spoke  to  his  chef,  Mon- 
sieur Kandon,  a  lofty  man  not  easily  propitiated,  but  with 
■whom  he  was  a  bit  of  a  favourite.  He  had  the  good  fortune 
to  find  the  potentate  in  an  excellent  temper. 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  he  said,  "  a  young  couple  who  require  en- 
couragement :  well,  Durand,  I  like  to  encourage  such.  I  shall 
go ;   Madame  Raudon  shall  go.     What  is  there  to  be  ?  " 

"  Music,  I  believe,  and  a  young  poet  is  to  repeat  some 
verses." 

"  I  like  poetry,"  said  Monsieur  Randon,  "  and  a  game  of 
cards." 

"  My  cousin  is  a  first-rate  ecarte  player,"  eagerly  said 
Theophile. 

"  I  like  cards  and  refreshments,"  continued  Monsieur  Pian- 
don. 

"  Virginie  is  profuse  with  refreshments,  platefuls  of  cakes, 
icGs,  &c." 

"  I  shall  go,"  paternally  said  Monsieur  Randon,  "  I   like  to 
14* 


322  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

encourage  struggling  merit.  Tell  your  cousins,  Durand,  that 
they  may  rely  upon  me  and  Madame  Randon." 

Theophile  Durand  delivered  the  message  to  Madame  Mar- 
tin, who,  on  hearing  the  tidings,  threw  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  and  called  him  an  angel. 

Everything  promised  well,  yet  one  of  those  mysterious  pre- 
sentiments which,  in  our  ignorance,  we  do  not  sufficiently  re- 
gard, warned  Theophile  Durand  to  stay  at  home,  and  go  to  bed 
on  that  fatal  Thursday.  Kindness  prompted  him  to  do  the 
very  reverse.  "  My  poor  cousin  wants  me,"  he  thought,  "  her 
floating  debt,  as  she  calls  it,  runs  short.  My  presence  is  ne- 
cessary. True,  I  should  like  home  and  quiet  best ;  but  we 
must  not  be  selfish."  Supported  by  these  generous  and  phi- 
lanthropic feelings.  Monsieur  Durand  dressed  himself,  and 
walked  off  to  Monsieur  Lefevre's  house. 

Carriages  encumbered  the  door. 

"  Oh,  ho  !  "  thought  Monsieur  Durand,  "  some  one  else  has 
a  party  in  my  cousin's  house.  Well,  truly,  why  not  ?  "  And 
not  altogether  displeased  to  show  a  stylish  group  of  ladies  iu 
ample  muslin,  and  gentlemen  in  white  cravats,  who  were  com- 
ing up  the  staircase  behind  him,  that  he  too  was  going  to  a 
party,  Theophile  Durand  gave  a  sharp,  jerking  ring  at  his 
cousin's  door.  But  the  ladies  stopped  behind  him.  Were 
they,  too,  invited  to  Madame  Lefevre's  evening  party  ?  They 
were,  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  it. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  fragrance  of  smoke  issued  forth. 

"  Is  the  place  on  fire  ?  "  asked  Monsieur  Durand,  stepping 
back. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  the  servant,  "  but  we  have  been  obliged 
to  make  fires  in  all  the  rooms,  and  some  of  the  fires  will  not 
burn." 

"  Dreadful,"  said  one  of  the  ladies,  "  I  hate  smoke." 

The  servant-girl  looked  at  the  speaker  and  her  companions, 
then  asked  in  a  peculiar  tone  : 

"  Are  you  ladies  coming  to  us  ?  Perhaps  it  is  up  staira 
you  are  going  ?  " 

"  Madame  Lefevre,"  replied  one  of  the  gentlemen. 

"  Walk  in,"  said  the  servant,  "  but  you'll  get  no  room, 
that's  all." 

"  No  room  !  "  they  all  exclaimed  in  a  breath. 

"  There  has  been  no  room  since  half-past  nine,"  replied  the 
eervant ;  "  the  drawing-room  has  been  full  since  eight ;  the 
two  bed-rooms  are  full ;  the  dining-room  is  full,  and  the  ante- 
room is  crammed." 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  323 

Tliey  stared  incredulous  and  amazed,  but  they  soon  ao 
quired  melancholy  confirmation  that  the  servant  had  spoken 
truly.  As  she  closed  the  door  upon  them,  they  found  them- 
selves in  a  smoky  ante-room,  hemmed  in  on  every  side  by  peo- 
ple all  standing,  and  none  of  them  in  the  best  of  tempers. 
The  new-comers  were  stared  at  in  rather  an  ungracious  fash- 
ion, and  a  lady  in  blue,  who  had  a  sharp  nose,  said  with  great 
asperity  of  tone  and  manner  : 

"  There  is  decidedly  an  hour  beyond  which  people  ought 
not  to  come  to  parties  :  it  is  ridiculous.  May  I  ask  what 
you  are  treading  on  my  dress  for,  sir  ?  "  she  added,  looking 
daggers  at  Thcophile  Durand. 

He  apologised  with  the  greatest  humility,  but  excused  him- 
self on  the  plea  of  a  desire  to  get  into  the  drawing-room.  The 
lady  with  the  sharp  nose  giggled  hysterically. 

"  And  do  you  suppose,  sir,"  she  asked,  "  that  we,  who 
have  been  standing  here  this  hour  without  being  able  to  get 
in,  are  going  to  let  you  in  ?  No,  sir,  you  came  last,  and  out 
you  shall  stay." 

The  ladies  in  muslin,  Avho  had  entered  with  Theophile 
Durand,  looked  lofty  and  mildly  disgusted. 

"  Oh  !  people  may  look  at  me,"  said  the  lady  with  the 
sharp  nose.  "  I  do  not  care ;  but  those  who  came  last  shall 
not  get  in  first.  It  is  bad  enough  to  stand  two  hours  and  not 
to  be  offered  a  biscuit  or  a  glass  of  water." 

Here  a  stir  took  place  in  one  of  the  inner  rooms,  and  a 
male  voice  was  heard  entreating  : 

"  Pray  let  us  out.  Let  me  beg  for  a  little  room.  We 
only  want  to  get  out." 

"  It  is  very  extraordinary,"  said  the  lady  with  the  sharp 
nose,  "  that  after  being  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  in  and  prevent 
other  people  from  enjoying  what  there  is  to  be  enjoyed,  some 
people  will  insist  on  disturbing  others  and  getting  out  again. 
I  think  for  my  part  they  should  be  kept  in." 

But  the  rumour  that  a  lady  was  fainting  opened  a  passage 
to  a  stout  gentleman,  who  appeared  half  bearing,  half  drag- 
ging, an  equally  stout  lady.  In  vain  the  lady  with  the  sharp 
nose  protested  that  this  was  but  a  mean  and  shallow  artifice  to 
deprive  last  comers  of  their  rightful  places,  and  that  it  should 
be  resisted.  The  red  face  of  the  stout  gentleman  was  bathed 
in  genuine  perspiration,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  zeal 
with  which  he  bore  and  dragged  the  stout  lady  after  him. 

"  A  chair,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  he  gasped,  as  he  got  out  of 


32i  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

the  crowd ;  "  is  there  no  one  that  will  have  the  charity  to  get 
me  a  chair  ?  " 

"  Chairs  !  "  giggled  the  lady  in  blue,  "  does  Monsieur  sup- 
pose that  if  there  were  chairs  ladies  would  remain  standing 
for  two  hours  ?  " 

Monsieur  was  going  to  declare  desperately  that  he  sup- 
posed nothing,  when  his  eye  caught  that  of  Theophile  Durand, 
who  was  vainly  hiding  in  the  crowd,  and  who  turned  pale  on 
meeting  it :   the  stout  gentleman  was  his  chef,  his  superior. 

"  Oh  !  you  are  here,"  said  Monsieur  Eandon,  with  smooth 
sarcasm,  "  may  I  request  you  to  help  me  to  support  Madame 
Randon  ?  " 

Theophile  obeyed,  and  assisted  in  propping  Madame  Ran- 
don,  who  was  slowly  recovering,  and  whom  her  husband  soon 
entirely  surrendered  to  his  employe's  care.  Being  thus  re- 
lieved from  a  considerable  burden.  Monsieur  Eandon  wiped 
his  damp  forehead,  and,  regardless  of  place  or  time,  thus  ad- 
dressed his  subordinate  : 

"  Well,  sir,  I  congratulate  you.  So  this  is  the  little  in- 
tellectual soiree  you  asked  me  to  patronise,  and  to  which  like 
a  deluded  man  I  brought  a  dozen  of  friends  and  their  innocent 
families  !  Sir,  you  are  an  impostor,"  added  Monsieur  Ean- 
don in  his  Avrath.  "  Come,  my  love,"  he  added,  taking  the 
arm  of  his  wife,  who  gave  Tlieopbile  a  withering  glance  for 
his  pains,  "  let  us  leave  this  ill-fated  house,  where  people  are 
smothered,  smoked — and  starved,"  added  Monsieur  Eandon, 
with  bitter  emphasis. 

They  stalked  out ;  Theophile  Durand  remained  stunned, 
heedless  of  the  sarcastic  looks  the  lady  in  blue  cast  upon  him. 
Then,  suddenly  awakening  to  the  fearful  consequences  this 
untoward  event  might  produce  on  his  prospects,  he  rushed 
down  stairs,  hoping  to  overtake  Monsieur  Eandon,  to  mollify 
his  wrath  by  humble  apologies.  But  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Eandon  had  entered  their  carriage,  and  were  already  rolling 
away. 

Theophile  Durand  was  roused.  Was  this  the  reward  he 
got  for  endeavouring  to  serve  his  cousin  ?  Eandon,  the  great 
Eandon,  had  been  alienated  for  ever,  and  for  what  ?  for  want 
of  due  politeness  and  attention,  for  want  of  an  ice  or  a  plate- 
ful x)f  cakes. 

"  She  shall  hear  a  piece  of  my  mind ! "  desperately  ex- 
claimed Monsieur  Durand,  and  remembering  that  it  was  useless 
to  go  up  the  front  staircase,  he  went  up  the  back  or  kitchen 
staircase,  undignified  but  sure.     No  sooner  had  he  tapped  at 


SEVEN    YEAHS.  325 

the  kitchen  door  than  it  flew  open.     On  the  threshold  within 
appeared  Madame  Martin  pale  and  breathless. 

"  Where  are  the  ices  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  "  speak,  sir,  where 
are  they"?  Have  you  brought  the  cakes  at  least  1  No  ;  then 
pray,  sir,  what  are  you  a  limonadier  for  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  a  limonadier,"  said  Theophile,  "  I  am  your  in- 
jured cousin." 

"  My  dear  creature,"  cried  Madame  Martin,  clasping  both 
his  hands,  "run  for  ices,  run  for  cakes,  run  for  anything. 
Where  the  people  are  come  from  I  do  not  know  ;  but  they 
keep  pouring  in.  The  place  is  full,  three  ladies  have  fainted 
already.  Go,  now  do,  there  is  a  good  soul.  There  is  a 
pastry-cook  round  the  corner,  who  sells  odds  and  ends  at  two 
francs  a  pound,  and  procures  ices  as  cheap.  Here  is  money,  go, 
pray  go." 

She  shut  the  door  in  his  face,  and  Monsieur  Durand  found 
himself  with  silver  in  his  hand  on  a  black  landing. 

He  was  a  good-natured  man :  he  forgot  his  wrongs  in  his 
cousin's  calamities.  He  went  for  the  ices ;  he  went  for  the 
cakes.  He  went  not  once,  but  three  times.  By  twelve  his 
labours  were  over,  the  people  had  discovered  that  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  had  by  staying,  and  they  departed  slowly. 
By  this  time,  too,  Monsieur  Durand's  wrath  had  cooled,  and  he 
magnanimously  resolved  not  to  crush  his  cousin  with  the  name 
of  Kandon.  "  The  poor  thing  has  had  trouble  enough,"  he 
generously  thought,  "  let  her  rest ;  let  her  rest." 

But  generosity  is  a  delusion  ;  with  a  sigh  of  relief  Monsieur 
Durand  was  preparing  to  depart,  when  Madame  Martin  solemnly 
begged  him  to  enter  her  son-in-law's  study ;  there  Theophile 
found  his  cousin  black  as  night. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  can  scarcely  credit,  and  I  certainly  can- 
not qualify,  the  extraordinary  statement  I  have  just  received 
from  Madame  Martin,  that  for  the  painful  and  disgraceful 
scenes  which  took  place  here  this  evening  I  am  indebtetl  to  you  ; 
that  you  took  the  liberty  of  inviting  to  this  house  something- 
like  thirty  or  forty  of  your  personal  friends,  making  me  and 
my  domestic  arrangements  a  matter  of  ridicule  and  amusement 
to  them.  1  repeat,  sir,  comments  are  superfluous ;  but  I  beg  to 
assure  you,  that  this  second  breach  will  not  be  so  easily  re- 
paired as  the  first." 

Monsieur  Lefevre  rose,  bowed  stiffly,  and  left  the  room. 

Theophile  Durand  remained  dumb.  He  had  incurred  the 
wrath  of  Monsieur  Randon,  he  had  been  made  an  errant  boy 


326  SEVEN   TEARS. 

of,  and  now  he   was  snubbed.     The  cup  was  full.     He  went 
home,  tooK  to  his  bed,  and  was  ill  a  week. 

This  is  the  last  trouble  on  record  of  a  quiet  man  ;  that  it 
will  be  the  last  no  one  who  has  perused  the  preceding  pages 
will  readily  believe. 


YOUNG  FRANCE. 

Tancredi  p.  Mathieu  was  a  member  of  the  Young  France 
party,  when  there  was  a  Young  France,  which  is  now  some 
years  ago.  He  was  the  son  of  an  honest  and  wealthy  Parisian 
grocer,  who  allowed  him  a  handsome  income  and  total  liberty 
of  action. 

Our  hero's  real  name  was  Pierre  Mathieu.  Tancredi  had 
been  assumed  for  poetical  and  euphonious  reasons.  His  friends, 
who  knew  his  sensitiveness  on  that  head,  never  gave  him  any 
otber  appellation.  Like  the  whole  Young  France  brother- 
hood, Tancredi  wore  long  curly  hair,  a  narrow  j^ointed  hat, 
Avhite  kid  gloves,  and  a  shirt  collar  turned  down  with  the 
most  Byronian  despair.  Any  one  who  looked  on  that  shirt 
collar  could  have  told  that  its  owner  was  a  melancholy  man — 
one  "  whose  young  aspirations  had  been  nipped  in  the  bud  by 
the  chilliug  breath  of  an  unfeeling  world." 

Tancredi's  existence  had  indeed  been  embittered  by  several 
severe  disappointments.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  neither  au 
unknown  foundling,  nor  an  exile,  nor  a  persecuted  man :  he 
had  enjoyed  throughout  life  the  most  provoking  and  common- 
place happiness.  He  did  not  possess  the  comfort  of  having  a 
tyrannical  father.  Monsieur  Mathieu  the  elder  was  the  soul  of 
good  nature.  Easy,  placable,  and  fond  of  peace,  he  allowed 
Tancredi  to  have  his  way.  There  is  no  denying  he  would 
have  liked  to  see  his  son  at  the  head  of  a  thriving  business, 
but  since  his  vocation  did  not  lie  in  that  direction  he  raised  no 
opposition  to  his  joining  the  Young  France  tribe,  wearing  long 
hair  and  a  pointed  hat.  Some  persons  kindly  assured  him 
that  Pierre — they  scorned  to  call  him  Tancredi — was  on  the  high 
road  to  ruin.  But  Monsieur  Mathieu  composedly  replied  that 
his  son  was  only  afflicted  with  a  temporary  mania,  then  very 
prevalent  amongst  young  Frenchmen,  and  that  he  did  not 
despair  to  see  him  one  day  radically  cured.  This  conviction 
did  not  prevent  the  grocer  from  reasoning  with  his  son  j  he 


SEVEN    TEARS.  327 

even  endeavoured  to  show  him  that  he  was  acting  very  foolishly  j 
but  as  Tancredi  immediately  assumed  the  tone  and  attitude  of 
a  martyr,  and  as  his  father — who,  under  the  appearance  of 
great  simplicity,  was,  nevertheless,  possessed  of  much  shrewd- 
ness and  good  sense — perceived  that  he  longed  to  be  persecuted 
for  his  opinions,  he  gradually  dropped  the  subject,  and  left  him 
thoroughly  free. 

Tancredi  keenly  felt  what  he  termed  his  father's  injustice. 
He  was  at  war  with  society — so  at  least  he  said — and  he  had 
a  right  to  persecution.  His  friends  all  agreed  with  him  that 
it  was  a  hard  case,  but  advised  him,  however,  to  bear  with  it 
patiently.  His  bosom  friend,  Charlemagne  Chamjjion  by  name, 
for  imperious  and  chivalrous  appellations  were  rife  in  their 
circle,  comforted  him  as  best  he  miaht. 

"  My  good  fellow,"  he  said,  with  an  odd  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
"  fathers  will  be  so — provoking — perverse — doing  the  very 
things  they  should  not  ;  but  better  times  are  coming." 

And  Charlemagne  Champion,  who,  though  Young  France, 
was  suspected  to  have  some  of  the  Old  France  wag  in  him  still, 
squeezed  his  friend's  hand  with  expressive  warmth. 

But  Monsieur  Mathieu's  irritating  passiveness  was  not 
Tancredi's  only  cause  of  grief:  another  source  of  bitter  regret 
lay  in  his  personal  appearance.  Somehow  or  other  he  had  in- 
herited from  his  father  the  grocer,  a  round,  rosy,  good-humoured 
face,  of  which  he  could  not  possibly  get  rid.  Notwithstanding 
his  constant  eflPorts  to  infuse  into  it  some  slight  portion  of  the 
poetical  melancholy  which,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  was  devour- 
ing his  soul,"  it  always  looked  pleased,  happy,  and  contented. 
To  make  matters  worse,  he  was  remarkably  fair,  and  inclined 
to  corpulency.  Gladly  would  Tancredi  have  sacrificed  half 
his  worldly  hopes  to  be  thin  and  sallow.  Accordingly,  when 
Charlemagne  Champion  spoke  of  better  times,  he  sighed, 
shook  his  head,  and  casting  a  despondent  look  at  the  glass, 
he  asked  in  a  hollow  voice,  "  Charlemagne,  will  that  face  ever 
change  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,"  composedly  replied  Charlemagne,  "  it  is  the 
living  likeness  of  the  immortal  Kobespierre."  Tancredi  gave 
a  start. 

"  Like  him — I  am  like  him  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Do  you  not  see  it'?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  musingly  replied  Tancredi,  "  you  are  quite 
right,  I  do  see  something  in  the  contour.  Robespierre  was  a 
minister,  but  I  am  not  sorry  to  be  like  him." 

Thus  comforted,  Tancredi  took  heart.     Besides,  like   all 


328  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

generous  spirits,  our  hero  often  forgot  his  own  unhappiness  in 
his  misanthropic  compassion  for  the  ignorarce  and  blindness 
of  mankind  at  large ;  he  was  convinced  that  the  world  was 
not  yet  half  civilized,  and  that  the  bourgeois  of  Paris,  espe- 
cially, were  in  a  lamentable  state  of  barbarism.  As  he  was 
himself  a  bourgeois  by  birth,  he  conceived  that  his  "mission" 
must  plainly  lie  in  civilizing  his  unhappy  brethren,  and  as  he 
happened  to  entertain  for  them  the  most  thorough  and  hearty 
contempt,  he  was  evidently  peculiarly  fitted  for  this  delicate 
task. 

The  bourgeois  are  the  middle  classes  of  France.  They 
chiefly  consist  of  retired  tradespeoj^le,  small  capitalists,  and 
employes,  or  clerks,  in  the  offices  of  the  government,  from 
whom  they  generally  receive  a  moderate  salary  for  their  ser- 
vices. They  are  a  quiet  and  inoffensive  race,  but  remarkably 
timid  and  cautious,  and  tenacious  of  their  habits  and  opinions 
to  an  extraordinary  degree.  Seeing  them  so  far  behind  their 
age,  Tancredi  generously  resolved  to  devote  himself  to  their 
improvement.  Whether  they  were  willing  to  be  improved  or 
not  was  no  consideration  ;  indeed  Tancredi  did  not  care  a  pin 
on  the  subject.  If  he  could  not  succeed  in  making  the  bour- 
geois better,  he  had  little  doubt  of  getting  persecuted  by  them  ; 
so  that,  which  ever  way  the  wind  blew,  he  felt  pretty  sure  of 
reaping  some  benefit.  These  preliminaries  being  settled,  he 
resolved  to  begin  his  attack  on  a  little  colony  of  bourgeois 
which  had  been  settling  for  the  last  century  in  one  of  the  most 
quiet  and  retired  streets  of  the  Marais,  not  far  from  the  spot 
where  stood  his  father's  house. 

This  street,  which  shall  be  nameless,  very  much  resembled 
a  country  town.  Though  not  possessing  more  than  a  dozen 
houses  on  either  side,  it  was  divided  into  several  sets,  which 
knew  nothing  whatever  of  one  another.  The  most  important 
set,  and  that  which  immediately  drew  Tancredi's  attention, 
was  Madame  Jacquemin's,  a  lady  who,  with  her  husband,  a 
retired  dyer,  inhabited  a  coquettish  little  bouse,  ornamented 
with  a  grass  plot  in  front,  and  a  garden  at  the  back,  and 
situated  in  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  the  street.  But  not- 
withstanding these  advantages,  M.  Jacquemin  was  an  unhappy 
man.  He  had  toiled  all  his  life  in  order  to  enjoy  his  old  age 
in  peace;  and  instead  of  his  fancied  happiness,  he  now  found 
nothing  in  retirement  save  ennui  and  weariness  of  spirit.  It 
was  in  vain  that  he  spent  the  day  in  walking  up  and  down 
his  handsome  house  and  about  his  pleasant  garden  ;  they 
could  administer  no  pleasure  to  his  mind.       He  would  gladly 


SEVEN    TE.litS.  32S 

have  given  tliein  both  for  tlie  dark  and  dismal  shop  of  the 
Eue  St.  Denis,  where  he  had  spent  thirty  years  of  his  life  in 
providing  for  his  present  discomfort.  Madame  Jacquemin, 
who  bore  her  misfortunes  with  a  truly  heroic  spirit,  en- 
deavoured to  arouse  her  husband  from  his  unhappy  state. 
She  took  him  to  the  play,  but  he  invariably  fell  asleep  before 
the  close  of  the  first  act ;  she  then  wished  to  introduce  him 
into  fashionable  society — a  plan  which  failed  signally  ;  and 
finally,  as  a  last  resource,  made  him  take  in  all  the  daily 
newspapers,  and  give  parties  twice  a  week.  M,  Jacquemin 
never  looked  at  one  of  his  newspapers  himself;  but  as  he 
nevertheless,  and  very  judiciously,  made  it  a  rule  that  not  one 
of  them  should  leave  las  house,  and  as  he  very  liberally  in- 
vited his  friends  to  "come  and  look  at  the  papers,"  his 
salon  was  every  morning  converted  into  a  kind  of  reading- 
room,  over  which  he  presided,  and  where,  for  two  or  three 
hours  at  least,  he  could  onc3  more  fancy  himself  in  his  shop, 
surrounded  by  his  customers. 

His  evening  parties  were  not  quite  so  amusing ;  because, 
as  Madame  Jacquemin  often  observed,  "  they  could  not  ask 
everybody."  Almost  all  their  guests  were  inhabitants  of  the 
street ;  but  there  were  of  course  vulgar  insignificant  houses, 
whose  lodgers  could,  under  no  pretence  whatever,  be  received 
or  admitted  by  the  dyer's  wife.  Good  M.  Jacquemin,  who 
in  the  fulness  of  his  ennui,  would  gladly  have  opened  his 
house  to  the  whole  world,  was  much  annoyed  by  his  wife's 
scruples,  but  nevertheless  compelled  to  submit  to  them. 
Amongst  the  favoured  few  were  M.  Bonnet  and  his  wife,  a 
couple  who  resided  on  the  first-fioor  of  number  seven,  and  who, 
as  Madame  Legrand,  a  waspish  little  widow,  who  lived  above 
them,  spitefully  averred,  gave  themselves  airs  in  consequence. 
But  as  there  was  a  constant  feud  between  her  and  Madame 
Bonnet,  too  much  faith  should  not  be  placed  in  the  lady's 
assertions.  M.  Bonnet  was  a  melancholy-looking  man,  ex- 
ceedingly nervous  and  timid,  and  employed  at  the  war-oftice, 
whence  he  often  came  home  in  the  evening  blank  with  dis- 
may, hinting  at  horrible  tidings  from  Abd-el-Kader,  or  in- 
timating the  likelihood  of  a  war  with  "  perfidious  Albion." 
Being  considered  a  profound  politician,  and  suspected  ol 
knowing  much  more  of  government  aifairs  tban  he  chose  to 
tell,  he  was  much  respected  everywhere,  save  in  his  own 
family,  over  which  Madame  Bonnet,  who  was  a  very  high- 
jspirited  woman,  boasted  that  she  alone  held  dominion.       Hei 


330  SEVEN"   YEARS. 

three  daugliters    were,  like  their  mother,  tall,  bony,  and  high- 
spirited  girls. 

Madame  Legrand,  the  officer's  widow  who  tennatcd  the 
second-floor  of  the  same  house,  was  likewise  aihiiitted  at  the 
Jacquemin  parties.  She  was  thin,  withered,  had  no  children, 
and  was  immoderately  fond  of  animals.  Whole  generations 
of  cats  and  dogs  revelled  in  her  salon  and  bedroom  ;  cages  o^ 
birds  were  hung  up  everywhere  in  her  apartment  ;  and  golden 
fishes  swam  in  vases  full  of  water  on  every  window-sill. 
Monsieur  Laurent,  a  stout  old  bachelor,  not  unlike  a  full- 
blown rose,  dwelt  on  the  third-floor.  He  had  a  mortal  hatred 
against  Legrand-and  her  menagerie,  those  of  the  canine  race 
in  particular.  Of  this  fact  the  dogs  seemed  to  have  an  in- 
stinctive knowledge,  for  whenever  he  came  up  or  down-stairs, 
they  snarled  and  growled  ;  and  if  they  chanced  to  be  on  the 
landing,  never  missed  the  opportunity  of  flying  at  his  heels. 
Though  Monsieur  Laurent  disliked  animals,  he  had  a  passion 
for  flowers  and  gardening  ;  he  had  turned  his  rooms  into  a 
perfect  conservatory,  and  the  greatest  portion  of  his  time  was 
spent  in  cultivating  and  watching  over  a  certain  patch  ot 
land,  about  as  large  as  a  dining-table,  and  termed  his  garden. 
Monsieur  Laurent  was  of  course  another  of  Monsieur  Jac- 
quemin's  invites. 

But,  besides  the  iidiabitants  of  number  seven,  there  were 
various  other  individu  ds  admitted  at  the  retired  dyer's  parties. 
Amongst  these  were  several  old  ladies,  who  did  an  immense 
quantity  of  worsted  wo;  k ;  and  a  mysterious  family  named  the 
l)o  Lorrains,  and  thought  to  be  of  noble  extraction,  who  in- 
habited an  old  dreamy-looking  hotel  at  the  end  of  the  street. 
They  were  six  in  all,  were  very  pale,  tall,  and  thin  ;  they 
dressed  meanly,  accepted  every  invitation,  and  gave  none  in 
returti.  Some  charitable  souls  indeed  noticed  that  they  never 
refused  anything,  not  even  the  refreshments  which  were  lib- 
erally handed  round  at  the  dyer's  parties  ;  and  as  to  the  cakes, 
it  was  actually  suspected  that  they  were  so  vulgar  and  uugen- 
teel  as  to  have  an  appetite  for  them.  It  was  also  known — it 
is  wonderful  how  those  things  are  known — that  in  the  coldest 
weather  they  had  no  fires.  Sometimes,  indeed,  they  indulged 
themselves  in  a  fagot,  to  which  they  set  fire  with  great  cere- 
mony ;  the  younger  De  Lorrain  being  always  on  such  an  occa- 
sion despatched  in  a  great  hurry  to  summon  his  father,  in 
order  that  he  might  partake  of  the  genial  heat  ere  it  was  quite 
extinct.  At  first  the  De  Lorrains  were  thought  mean — then 
they  were  accused  of  being  poor ;  but  many  defended   them, 


SEVEN   TEAES.  331 

and  asserted  that  tliey  were  only  misers.  It  then  began  to  be 
reported  that  they  were  immensely  rich,  and  their  company 
was  for  some  time  eagerly  sought.  It  is  true  their  fortune,  if 
they  had  one,  was  of  no  great  use  to  anybody,  not  even  to 
themselves  ;  but  who  has  not  felt  the  sense  of  security,  the 
comfort,  which  lies  in  having  a  rich  acquaintance  ?  As  years, 
however,  passed  away,  and  they  lived  quite  as  meanly,  and 
dressed  as  shabbily  as  ever,  this  impression  wore  off:  they  be- 
gan to  be  looked  upon  as  impostors,  and  there  was  some  talk 
of  discarding  them  altogether.  But  Madame  Jacquemin,  who 
was  of  a  compassionate  disposition,  resolved  to  spare  them,  on 
account  of  their  poverty  and  their  gentle  blood  ;  they  accord- 
ingly continued  to  be  admitted  to  the  soirees,  where  they  acted 
a  subordinate  part,  being  patronised  by  every  one.  Such  were 
the  individuals  who  met  at  M.  Jacquemiu's  parties ;  if  theii 
company  did  not  afford  him  much  amusement,  it  was  not  their 
fault.  The  retired  dyer  was  very  selfish  :  he  plainly  showed 
his  visitors  that  he  cared  for  no  one  but  himself;  yet,  strange- 
ly enough,  everybody  sympathised  with  him,  everybody  seemed 
ready  to  administer  comfort  and  advice. 

"  If  Monsieur  Jacquemin  would  give  dinners,"  suggested 
the  De  Lorrains,  "  he  would  find  it  a  very  interesting  occu- 
pation." 

"  How  so  ?  "  suspiciously  asked  Madame  Jacquemin. 

"  Human  nature,  character,"  replied  the  De  Lorrains  :  "  the 
dinner  table  is  the  true  place  to  see  them  in  ;  physiognomy, 
too,  and  even  phrenology,  can  be  studied  to  advantage  from 
the  dinner  table,  and  with  Monsieur  Jacquemin's  remarkable 
power  of  observation — " 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !  no  such  a  thing,"  interrupted  Monsieur 
Jacquemin,  rather  crossly,  "  besides,  I  hate  to  look  at  people 
eating." 

"  It  is  animal,"  said  Madame  Legrand,  who  was  present, 
"  and  is  only  beautiful  when  performed  by  animals.  It  is  ex- 
quisite, it  is  delicious  to  see  a  bird  feed." 

"  I  rather  like  larks  roasted,"  said  Monsieur  Jacquemin; 
"  they  are  nice,  there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  but  then  it  takes  so 
many  to  make  a  dish." 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  misunderstand  me,"  said  Madame  Le- 
grand, rather  shocked  at  the  suggestion  :  "  eat  larks  !  sweet, 
harmonious,  musical  creatures  !  JN'o,  no,  I  meant  it  was  charm- 
ing to  sec  birds  peck  their  food.  I  have  a  canary  which  I 
would  lend — " 

"  Oh !  for  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  mention  it,"  interrupted 


332  SEVEN   YEAKS. 

Madame  Be  Lorrain,  with  an  hysterical  laugh,  "  the  scream- 
ing little  thing  would  drive  Monsieur  Jacquemin's  head 
wild." 

"  Canaries  do  not  scream,"  said  Madame  Legrand,  "  they 
sing,  but  as  this  one  does  not  sing  and  has  never  sung,  it  could 
not  make  Monsieur  Jacquemin's  head  ache." 

But  Monsieur  Jacquemin  liked  birds  in  a  pie,  and  pe- 
remptoi'ily  declined  the  canary.  In  this  Monsieur  Laurent 
confirmed  him. 

"  Animals,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said  feelingly,  "  would  sour  your 
temper,  gardening  is  the  thing.  You  have  a  garden, — sow, 
reap,  dig,  and  you  will  be  a  happy  man.  Let  me  send  you 
down  some  choice  flowers." 

"  I  do  not  like  flowers,"  growled  Monsieur  Jacquemin. 

Madame  Bonnet,  too,  had  her  panacea.  Why  not  adopt 
some  interesting  and  sweet-tempered  child ;  not  an  orphan — ■ 
you  never  know  what  kind  of  parents  an  orphan  had  ;  swind- 
lers and  thieves  perhaps — but  a  child  "  whose  parents,  honest, 
respectable  people,  were  still  alive — and  which,"  she  senti- 
mentally added,  "  would  prove  the  staif  and  comfort  of  his  old 
age." 

This  had  nearly  settled  it.  "  Old  age  indeed  !  did  Madame 
Bonnet  think  Monsieur  Jacquemin  was  going  to  make  his 
will  ?  No,  no,  not  just  yet.  Thank  Heaven,  he  was  hale  and 
hearty,  and  would  bury  them  all." 

In  sliort,  the  plain  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  Monsieur 
Jacquemin  liked  private  dinners  best;  that  he  disliked  ani- 
mals, did  not  care  about  flowers,  and  never  having  had  any 
children  of  his  own,  detested  the  children  of  other  people  : 
Madame  Bonnet's  included.  He  felt,  besides,  all  the  rich 
man's  aversion  to  an  heir;  and  constantly  refused  to  see  his 
poor  relations,  lest  they  should  think  of  his  will. 

These  were  the  individuals  whom  Tancredi  P.  Mathieu 
had  resolved  to  civilize,  and  for  that  praiseworthy  purpose  he 
got  an  introduction  to  one  of  Madame  Jacquemin's  soirees. 
At  once  his  eagle  eye  detected  the  awful  amount  of  narrow- 
minded  dulness  of  that  little  circle.  The  old  ladies  were 
busy  at  their  worsted  work  ;  Monsieur  Laurent  and  Madame 
Legrand  were  quarrelling  over  a  game  of  piquet ;  the  melan- 
choly De  Lorraius  were  eu2ao;ed  with  dominoes  ;  Monsieur 
Jacquemin  way  displaying  his  hospitality  by  compelling  his 
guests  to  swallo  ff  down  immense  quantities  of  cakes  and  lemon- 
ade ,    and  Monsieur   Bonnet  sat  apart,  wrapped   in   his  own 


SEVEN    YEAKS.  338 

moody  thoughts,  which  he  occasionally  condescended  to  im- 
part to  some  eager  listener. 

"  Only  a  few  friends,"  said  Madame  Jacquemin,  smiling 
graciously  on  Tancredi,  "  a  few  homely  friends  who  meet  here 
three  times  a  week  to  chat,  to  talk,  to  play  a  few  odd  games." 

"  Squirrels!  "  seutentiously  said  Tancredi. 

"  Squirrels  !  "  echoed  Madame  Jacquemin,  amazed. 

"  Squirrels  in  a  cage,"  repeated  Tancredi,  "  turning  round 
and  round,  doing  the  same  things  over  and  over  again." 

"  Dear  me,  how  very  odd,"  said  Madame  Jacquemin,  and 
raising  her  voice,  she  added,  "  Monsieur  Tancredi  Mathieu 
declares  we  are  all  squirrels." 

Tliis  strange  speech  completed  the  sensation  which  Tan- 
credi's  long  hair,  pointed  hat,  and  white  kid  gloves  had  begun. 
He  saw  his  advantage,  and  casting  a  magnetic  look — at  least 
he  said  so  afterwards — over  the  whole  assembly,  he  followed 
up  this  first  success  with  considerable  effect. 

He  scarcely  opened  his  lips,  and  was  thought  a  prodigious 
wit.  He  seemed  to  entertain  the  most  thorough  contenq^t  for 
the  whole  world,  the  individuals  around  him  included ;  and 
they  all  agreed  in  audible  whispers  that  he  was  a  very  superior 
sort  of  person — quite  a  genius:  great  geniuses  always  despise 
the  world.  Although  both  piquet  and  dominoes  were  neg- 
lected, the  evening  passed  away  with  amazing  swiftness. 
Every  one  had  gathered  around  the  stranger,  who  opened  his 
moath  every  ten  minutes,  and  delivered  some  oracular  sentence, 
received  by  his  hearers  with  the  utmost  gravity. 

From  that  day  Tancredi  P.  Matiiieu  became  the  acknowl- 
edged lion  of  the  Jacquemin  soirees,  and  of  the  Murais,  wLiich 
had  never  known  a  lion  before.  He  was  the  object  of  every 
one's  admiration  :  the  De  Lorrains  alone  looked  upon  him  with 
a  suspicious  eye;  they  had  an  instinctive  consciousness  of  a  foe. 

True,  Tancredi  did  nut  even  bestow  a  thought  upon  them, 
but,  like  many  remarkable  individuals,  he  showed  an  early  in- 
clination to  tyranny,  and  betrayed  certain  destructive  propen- 
sities, whicli  threatened  to  break  upon  the  quiet  monotony  of 
the  bouro-eois  circle,  lieiuo-,  as  he  expressed  it  himself,  of  a 
spiritual  nature,  lie  animadverted  in  strong  terms  aganist  the 
material  custom  of  eating  in  the  evening. 

"  Intellectual  food  is  the  tiling,"  he  loftily  said  to  Madame 
Jacquemin.  "  Intellectual  food  and  no  other.  That  alone 
purities  and  exalts." 

Madame  Jacquemin  felt  the  cogency  of  this  reasoning,  and 
as  she  considered  Tancredi  au  oracle  in   matters  of  taste,  she 


334  SEVEN   YEAES. 

hastened  to  suppress  the  refreshments  and  sweets  she  had  hither- 
to caused  to  be  freely  handed  round  to  her  guests. 

Having  thus  victoriously  asserted  the  triumph  of  mind  over 
matter,  Tancredi  next  succeeded  in  banishing  both  piquet  and 
dominoes. 

"  In  no  intellectual  assembly  should  such  idle  toys  be  ad- 
mitted,"  he  said  to  Madame  Jacquemiu.  And  piquet  and 
dominoes  vanished. 

Madame  Legrand  and  Monsieur  Laurent,  who  had  quarrel- 
led over  the  former  game  for  the  last  twenty  years,  both  loudly 
protested  against  this  new  arrangement,  but  as  their  quarrels 
were  only  pleasant  to  themselves,  every  one  agreed  that  piquet 
deserved  its  fsite. 

Having  thus  deprived  his  disciples  of  their  old  amuse- 
ments, our  hero  felt  it  his  duty  to  provide  them  with  others  in 
their  stead.  A  piano  accordingly  made  its  appearance  in 
Madame  .Jacquemin's  drawing-room.  It  is  true  nobody  could 
play  upon  it — not  even  Tancredi ;  but  that  was  evidently  of 
little  consequence,  for  towards  the  close  of  a  very  dull  even- 
ing he  rose,  and  after  vainly  beseeching  one  of  the  accomplish- 
ed ladies  present  to  accompany  him,  at  last  sung,  unaccom- 
panied, but  still  standing  near  the  silent  piano,  a  pathetic 
Italian  song,  in  which  he  bewailed  his  unhappy  fate  ;  for,  as 
he  afterwards  condescendingly  informed  the  company — who 
had  not  understood  a  single  word — he  was  a  forsaken  and  de- 
spairing lover.  After  thus  initiating  them  to  the  charms  of 
melody,  Tancredi  resolved  to  let  them  into  sublimer  mysteries, 
and  accordingly  fixed  an  evening,  on  which  he  proposed  to 
read  to  Madame  Jacquemia's  guests  a  series  of  sonnets,  which 
he  had  composed  several  years  before,  "  On  the  Prospect  ot 
being  Compelled  by  my  Father  to  become  a  Grocer."  This,  it 
must  be  confessed,  was  a  little  poetical  fiction,  in  which  T;in- 
credi  had  considered  himself  at  liberty  to  indulge.  Nothini^ 
was  ever  further  from  M.  Mathieu's  thoughts  than  to  compel 
his  son,  to  anything  he  disliked,  though  he  certainly  had  at- 
tempted to  achieve,  by  persuasion,  the  profanation  above 
alluded  to. 

The  evening  came,  the  company  gathered  around  him,  and 
Tancredi  began  his  reading  :  he  persevered  for  upward  of  twc 
hours,  without  manifesting  the  least  symptom  of  fatigue. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  looked  up,  and  found  himself  alone, 
comparatively  speaking.  M.  Jaequemin  was  fast  asleep  ;  the 
old  ladies  were  nodding  over  their  worsted  work  ;  Madame 
Jaequemin  had  early  eflected  her  escape,  with  several  female 


SEVEN    YEAES.  335 

friends ;  M.  Laurent  and  M.  Bonnet  shook  their  heads,  and  ex 
changed  ominous  ghmces;  the  fix  De  Lorrains  aloae  were  widfi 
awake,  looking  ac  our  hero  wlt'i  their  fixed  stony  eyes,  whilst 
their  cadaverous  and  melancholy  faces  expressed  the  most 
absolute  determination  to  sit  out  both  him  and  his  poetry. 
To  increase  the  dismal  appearance  of  the  scene,  the  lire  had 
gone  out,  the  caudles  burned  dimly,  and  wanted  snuffing,  whilst 
the  loud  snoring  which  proceeded  from  the  vast  arm-chair  in 
which  M.  Jacquemin  lay,  rather  marred  the  melody  of  the 
poet's  verses.  "  I  see  they  are  not  in  a  sufficiently  advanced 
state  of  civilization  to  appreciate  the  beauties  of  poetry," 
thought  Tancredi,  as  he  looked  upon  his  audience  :  "I  must 
form  their  political  principles." 

Unfortunately  for  the  execution  of  this  project,  it  happened 
that  both  M.  Bonnet  and  M.  Laurent  had  of  late  conceived 
strange  notions  of  Taucredi's  political  character.  His  foreign 
name  did  not  sound  quite  orthodox  in  their  ear;  then  his 
pointed  hat,  shirt  collar,  and  flowing  locks,  struck  them  as  be- 
inff  somethimi-  portentous  in  their  way.  Philosophers  well 
know  what  great  meanings  sometimes  lie  hidden  under  trifles. 
As  to  his  poetical  readings,  they  had  a  revolutionary  air,  in 
direct  opposition  to  the  old  school  of  poetry,  and  also,  they 
strongly  suspected,  to  the  established  order  of  things.  Who 
could  tell  of  whom  Tancredi  Mathieu  might  be  the  agent,  or 
what  was  going  on  in  the  bosom  of  the  hitherto  peaceful 
Marais  ?  Nay,  for  all  they  knew,  his  pretended  Italian  love- 
song  might  be  some  revolutionary  Marseillais  hyuin,  or  qaira, 
speciously  clothed  under  a  foreign  garb  !  In  short,  the  em- 
ploye of  the  war-office  and  the  horticultural  amateur  both 
agreed  it  was  high  time  to  keep  their  eye  upon  Tancredi,  whom 
they  began  to  consider  as  a  dangerous  political  character. 

Under  these  favourable  circumstances  our  hero  began  his 
political  campaign.  He  had  not  yet  exactly  determined  upon 
the  doctrines  he  meant  to  inculcate,  but  he  concluded  that  he 
would  soon  find  this  out ;  and  as  he  was  not  a  little  elated 
with  the  success  of  his  previous  efforts,  he  began  his  attack  in 
the  spirit  of  true  knight  erranty,  dealing  out  his  blows  right 
and  left,  without  much  minding  where  they  fell. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  one  evening  to  Monsieur  Jacquemin,  "  this 
state  oi  things  cannot  last.  Society  is  wrong,  radically 
wrong.  A  day  will  come,  sir,  when  the  rich  will  have  to  sur- 
render their  ill-gotten  gold  to  the  poor  :  and  then,  beautiful 
result ;  their  will  be  no  poor  and  no  rich." 

"  No  poor  and  no   rich  ! "    gasped   Monsieur  Jacquemin, 


336  SEVEN    YEARS. 

gi'owing  purple,  "  and  do  you  mean  to   say,  sir,  that  thieves 
will  come  and  rob  me,  sir?" 

"  I  make  no  particular  applications  of  the  system,"  placid- 
ly replied  Tancredi,  "  I  merely  state  what  will  be." 

"  Well,  sir,  let  them  only  attempt  it,"  said  Monsieur 
Jacquemin,  "  let  them  only  try  it,  ha  !  ha  ! — that  is  all  I 
say." 

"  Try  it !  "  said  Monsieur  Bonnet,  "  no,  no,  they  have 
other  work  in  hand  with  Abd-el-Kader." 

"  I  admire  Abd-el-Kadcr,"  thoughtfully  ejaculated  Tan- 
credi. ''  He  is  a  hero  and  a  patriot.  Besides,  what  is  that 
puny  warfare  in  Algeria?  We  shall  have  a  European  war 
before  long." 

"  He  admires  Abd-el-Kadcr  !  "  gasped  Monsieur  Bonnet, 
unable  to  say  more.  Horticulture  Tancredi  did  not,  however, 
admire.  He  openly  expressed  his  contempt  for  it  to  Mon- 
sieur Laurent,  and  plainly  said  it  would  be  done  away  with 
under  the  new  state  of  things. 

"  Oh  !  ho  !  "  said  Monsieur  Laui'ent,  with  a  sneer  ;  "  and 
how  will  the  world  get  on  without  geraniums  or  roses?  / 
should  like  to  know  ihid  !  " 

"  Sir,"  replied  Taucredi,  with  an  ominous  look,  "  there  are 
spirits,  blighted  spirits,  for  which  deadly  nightshade,  and  hem- 
lock itself,  have  more  attractions  tluin  all  the  roses  of  Syria." 

"  What  a  villain  !  "   njuttered  Monsieur  Laurent. 

To  Madame  Legrand  Tancredi  made  no  predictions;  but 
this  lady  he  had  long  mortally  offended  beyond  all  hope  of  re- 
conciliation, by  expressing  his  ardent  desire  of  seeing  every 
dog  hung,  and  every  canary  bird  shot  through  the  heart;  in 
support  of  which  philanthropic  wish  he  had  adduced  so  many 
plausible  arguments,  that  the  good  lady  felt  convinced  that  if 
ever  the  Young  France  party  prevailed,  her  menagerie  was 
doomed. 

"  I  know  it  is  Monsieur  Laurent's  doing,"  she  said  to  one 
of  the  De  Lorrains,  by  whom  she  was  sitting.     "  I  know  that 


man — " 


A  fearful  scream  interrupted  her.  One  of  the  old  ladies 
had  gone  into  fits,  and  this  was  no  sooner  perceived  by  the 
other  old  ladies,  her  friends,  than,  out  of  mere  sympathy,  they 
followed  her  example.  Awful  was  the  confusion  that  fol- 
lowed ;  Madame  Jacquemin  was  pretty  well  frightened  out  of 
her  wits  ;  Tancredi,  who  had  caused  all  this  hubbub,  stood  and 
looked  on,  smiling  and  triumphant. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  what  has  happened  ?  "  exclaimed  Mad- 


SEVEN   YEARS.  337 

ame  Legrand.     One   of  the   De   Lorrains   rose  to  learn,  and 
Boon  came  back  with  the  tidings. 

"Dreadful!"  she  said.  "You  know  Mademoiselle  du 
Rocher's  family  were  all  guillotined  in  the  terror  ?  " 

"  Well  !  "  eagerly  exclaimed  Madame  Legrand. 

"  Well,  this  wretch  goes  up  to  her  and  says  :  '  Madame,  do 
you  know  that  I  am  wonderfully  like  Robespierre  ?  '  Upon 
which  the  poor  thing  looks  at  him,  and  perceiving  the  likeness, 
screams  and  faints." 

"  Monster  !  "  said  Madame  Legrand.  She  spoke  loud 
enough  for  Taiicredi  to  hear.  He  acknowledged  the  epithet 
with  a  gracious  smile,  and  left  the  place  at  Madame  Jacque- 
niin's  request. 

"  If  she  sees  you,"  said  that  lady,  "  she  will  certainly  re- 
lapse.     Pray  go." 

Tancredi  felt  delighted  with  tliis  crowning  exploit.  With 
this  tact  and  discrimination  did  he  endeavour  to  civilize  the 
biuirgeois  of  the  Marais  :  the  succession  of  petty  storms  and 
alarms  he  raised  must  be  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader. 
It  is  true  tliat,  had  the  worthy  citizens  known  anything  about 
either  Tancredi  P.  Mathicu,  or  the  Young  France  party,  they 
would  have  been  conscious  that  the  former  was  the  most  harm- 
less of  human  beings,  and  from  the  latter  there  was  little  or 
nothing  to  be  apprehended.  The  Young  France  party,  with 
their  kid  gloves  and  hair  carefully  curled,  were  no  doubt  the 
fit  apostles  of  a  revolution,  but  by  such  revolutions  are  not 
generally  made.  But  fear  reasons  not :  Tancredi's  words  were 
received  as  gospel  truth,  and  pretty  work  they  soon  made  in 
the  Marais. 

The  dragon's  teeth  were  not  sown  in  vain  :  quarrels  sprung 
on  every  side.  Madame  Bonnet  took  it  into  her  head  to 
sympathise  with  Abd-el-Kader,  who  became  the  subject  of  daily 
dissensions  between  her  and  her  husband.  A  new  and  daily 
feud  sprang  up  between  Monsieur  Laurent  and  Madame  Le- 
grand, the  foru)er  of  whom  avowed  that  in  consequence  of 
Tancredi's  disastrous  teaching,  his  finest  flower-beds  were 
ruined  by  the  widow's  dogs.  Rendered  desperate  by  one  of 
those  melancholy  events,  and  recalling  to  mind  Tancredi's 
denunciations  against  pets  of  every  description,  Monsieur 
Laurent  having  provided  himself  with  tackle  and  a  fishing- 
rod,  exercised  his  vengeance  on  one  of  Madame  Legrand's 
unoffending  golden  fishes,  by  actually  fishing  it  up  througli  his 
bed-room  window.  The  unhappy  lady,  wlio,  hearing  a,  sus 
picious  noise  against  the  highest  window  panes,  had  rushed  tc 
15 


338  SEVEN    YEARS. 

tlie  rescue,  only  arrived  in  time  to  see  her  finny  favourite 
whisked  up  in  the  air,  and  vanishing  into  the  enemy's  pre- 
cincts. Her  first  act  was  to  snatch  in  her  remaining  treasures, 
-who,  quite  unconscious  of  their  companion's  fate,  were  still 
gaily  swimming  along  their  narrow  domain;  the  next  was  to 
scream  for  help,  and  then  faint  away  in  good  earnest.  Wiien 
she  recovered,  she  found  herself  surrounded  by  condoling 
friends  ;  but  nothing  could  soothe  her  wounded  spirit.  She 
declared  that  she  never  should  forgive  M.  Laurent,  against 
whom  she  vowed  eternal  hatred  and  vengeance. 

But  even  greater  evils — all  springing  from  the  same  source 
— menaced  the  guests  of  M.  Jacquemin.     The  worthy   dyer, 
on  whom  Tancredi's  speeches  had   made  a  profound    impres- 
sion, began  to  entertain  serious  fears  for  his  safety.     Lest  his 
reputation   of  being  a  wealthy    man    should   bring    him  into 
trouble,  he  determined   to  reduce  his  expenditure ;   and,  as  a 
first  step,  talked  of  discontinuing  to  take  in  the  daily  papers, 
and    stopping    the     soirees    altogether.     This    announcement 
spread  a  panic  throughout  the  whole  street.      M.  Jacquemin's 
house  had  become  a  place  of  public  entertainment,  which  his 
guests  had   no  inclination  to  find  closed  upon  them.^    In  this 
dilemma  a  general  council  was  held;  private  dissensions  were 
for  a  while   forgotten,  and   it  was    unanimously    resolved   to 
strike  at  the  root  of  the  evil,  and  banish  Tancredi  P.  Mathicu. 
The  gaunt   Do  Lorrains,   who  alone   had  from  the  beginning 
perceived  the  impending  danger,  proposed  to  signalize  him  to 
the  mayor  of  the   arroudissement  as  a  dangerous  individual  ; 
M.  Bonnet  offered  to  say  a  few  words  at   the  war-office  ;   M. 
Laurent  to  give  him  a  delicate  hint  in  the  language  of  liowers; 
Madame  Legrand  proposed  a  night  attack  on  his  person  ;   and 
the  old  ladies  were  for  handling  him  over  to  the  public  execu- 
tioner at   once.     But  Madame   Jacquemin  rejected  ail  tliese 
plans  as  too  violent  and  inhospitable,  and  resolved  to  intimate 
to  him,  as  politely  as  possible,  that  if  he  chose  to  continue  his 
visits,  it   must  no   longer   be  on  his  own   terms,  but  on  hers. 
Accordingly,  when  Tancredi  came  as  usual  to  one  of  the  even- 
ing soirees,  his  head    full  of  mighty  plans  of  poetical,  social, 
and   political   reform,  he    could   not,  notwithstanding    his  ab- 
straction, but   notice   that  a  great   change  had    taken  place. 
The  piano,  which   had  only  been  hired  for  a  month,  had  van- 
ished;  M.  Laurent  and    Madame    Legrand  were    quarrelling 
over   piquet   to   their   heart's   content;  the  Do  Lorraius,  who 
were  eating  cakes  and  drinking  lemonade,  eyed  him  with  de- 
fiance ;  dominoes  were  re-established  in  their  supremacy  ;  and 


SEVEN    YEARS.  339 

the  old  ladies  were  as  triumphantly  engaged  in  worsted-work 
as  on  the  night  of  his  first  appearance  amongst  them. 

One  glance  told  Tancredi  that  the  bourgeois  of  the  Marais 
haa  rebelled  :  his  authority  was  no  longer  acknowledged  ;  he 
was  virtually  dethroned.  Even  the  most  energetic  minds 
must  sometimes  yield  to  the  might  of  fate :  thus  it  was  with 
our  hero.  Vanquished,  but  unsubdued  in  spirit,  he  never- 
theless saw  the  uselessness  of  resistance.  Casting  a  glance  of 
withering  scorn  on  his  late  disciples,  he  spake  not  a  word,  but 
turned  upon  his  heel,  and  left  the  drawing-room  of  Madame 
Jacquemin,  inwardly  passing  the  fatal  fiat  "  for  ever."  With 
signal  ingratitude,  every  one  uttered  an  exclamation  of  tri- 
umph ou  witnessing  his  exit.  The  remainder  of  the  evening 
was  spent  in  perfect  enjoyment — harmony  seemed  quite  re- 
stored ;  and  it  is  averred  that,  notwithstanding  the  late  pain- 
ful circumstances  tliat  had  occurred,  the  quarrels  of  M.  Lau- 
rent and  the  fair  widow  were  marked  by  unusual  amenity. 

Tlie  day  after  his  defeat,  Tancredi  wrote  to  Charlemagne 
Champion  a  letter  of  seven  pages,  in  which  he  related,  with 
great  seeming  bitterness  of  spirit,  his  vain  attempt  to  civilize 
a  parcel  of  barbarians,  and  instil  into  their  uncultivated  minds 
a  love  of  the  fine  arts,  and  a  sound  political  creed.  He  end- 
ed by  exclaiming  against  the  cruelty  of  mankind,  that  would 
not  allow  him  one  moment's  repose ;  and  as  he  had  little 
doubt  that  the  malice  of  his  antagonists  would  drive  them  to 
every  extremity,  spoke  of  exiling  himself  in  some  remote  soli- 
tude, where  his  wounded  spirit  might  perhaps  at  iast  find  rest  ! 

By  return  of  post  he  received  the  following  answer  : 

"  Dear  Tanckedi, 

"  I  am  by  no  means  astonished  at  youi-  failure  ;  you  have 
met  with  a  fate  common  to  all  great  spirits ;  you  ought  not, 
therefore,  to  mourn,  but  to  rejoice.  Hud  you,  however,  con- 
sulted me  on  the  subject,  I  could  have  foretold  exactly  what 
has  happened.  Whatever  you  do,  never  again  attempt  to 
civilize  bourgeois.  They  are  very  worthy  people  in  their  way, 
but  singularly  obstinate.  They  like  to  enjoy  themselves  ac- 
cording to  their  own  stupid  old-fashioned  manner.  As  they 
are  fast  disappearing  from  the  surface  of  the  land,  it  is  only 
an  act  of  mercy  to  allovr  them  to  live  unmolested.  Hence- 
forth heed  them  not,  but  turn  all  your  efibrts  and  energies  ou 
the  rising  generation.  Give  up  the  thought  of  going  into 
exile  ;  talents  like  yours  should  not  be  wasted  away  in  a 
desert.  Your  devoted 

"  CUAKLEMAGNE    ChAMPION." 


340  SEVEN    YEARS. 

But  Tancredi  was  bent  on  being  a  persecuted  man,  and 
once  in  his  life,  at  least,  an  exile.  Ho  announced  to  his  father 
his  intention  of  leaving  the  country  for  some  time.  Monsieur 
Mathieu  the  elder  heard  him  with  much  more  composure  than, 
from  the  painful  nature  of  the  communication,  might  have 
been  expected;  he  even  remarked  that  travelling  wouW  do 
bis  son  good,  and  seemed  to  view  the  whole  affair  as  one  of 
minor  importance.  It  was  in  vain  that  Tancredi  endeavoured 
to  impress  upon  his  mind  that  he  was  going  to  leave  his  coun- 
try perhaps  for  ever.  Monsieur  Mathieu  persisted  in  assert- 
ing that  he  was  only  going  to  travel,  and  very  calmly  bade 
him  farewell. 

In  a  few  days  Tancredi  left  Paris  for  Geneva.  We  will 
not  dwell  on  the  agonizing  nature  of  his  feelings  when,  having 
passed  the  frontier,  he  beheld  from  the  diligence  window  the 
blue  hills  of  his  country — his  native  bills,  as,  forgetting  his 
Parisian  birth,  he  called  them — vanish  from  his  view.  For 
three  months  he  wandered  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Leuian,  and 
indulged  in  misantnropic  reflections  on  the  folly  and  ingrati- 
tude of  mankind.  At  the  expiration  of  that  term — during 
which  he  had  been,  to  say  the  truth,  the  prey  to  intolerable 
ennui — he  gladly  hastened  back  to  Paris,  without,  however, 
informing  his  father  of  his  intention.  On  a  fine  summer  even- 
ing he  bent  his  steps  towards  his  father's  house  in  the  Marais  : 
be  still  wore  his  pointed  hat,  and  a  travelling  cloak  enveloped 
bis  person  ;  a  porter  who  followed  him  carried  his  luggage. 
Without  allowing  himself  to  be  announced,  Tancredi,  who 
loved  dramatic  effect,  rushed  into  the  parlour,  where  his  father 
was  seated  reading  the  newspaper,  and  throwing  back  his 
cloak,  discovered  himself  to  the  ex-grocer's  astonished  sight. 
Good  Monsieur  Mathieu  laid  down  the  naper  instantly,  and 
uttered  a  very  deep  hem  ;  but  as  he  was  not  what  is  called  a 
very  nervous  man,  he  did  not  seem  otherwise  afl'ected,  but 
kindly  welcomed  his  son  ;  and  seeing  that  he  looked  as -rosy 
and  happy  as  ever,  immediately  gave  orders  for  a  substantial 
supper.  Tancredi,  who  was  rapturously  gazing  through  the 
window  on  the  starlit  sky  of  his  native  city,  of  course  heard 
or  heeded  nothing  of  those  material  coiicerns ;  "  his  spirit 
was  far  away." 

*'  Well,  Pierre,  how  did  you  like  Geneva  ?  "  asked  Mon- 
sieur Mathieu,  turning  towards  his  son,  whom  he  never  called 
Tancredi. 

"  All  places  are  alike ;  he  is  everywhere  alone,"  moodily 
answered  his  son  in  the  words  of  Lamennais. 


SEVEN    TEAKS.  34:1 

M.  Mathieu,  wlio  saw  that  Tancrcdi  was  still  bent  on 
being  wretched,  remained  silent,  and  took  up  his  newpaper 
once  more. 

"  I  suppose,"  resumed  Tancredi  after  a  brief  pause,  "  the 
malignancy  of  their  hatred  is  unabated  ?  " 

"  Of  whom  are  you  speaking  ?  "  inquired  his  father  with 
seeming  surprise. 

"  Of  M.  Jaequemin,  his  wife,  and  all  those  whose  ingrati- 
tude made  me  fly  my  native  land." 

"  Oh,  they  are  very  well,  thank  you ;  they  were  all  inquir- 
ing after  you  only  last  week." 

"  I  know  they  hate  me ;  yet  I  wish  them  no  evil,"  replied 
Tancredi,  with  the  resignation  of  a  martyr.  "  I  earnestly 
hope  they  are  happy  ?  " 

"  They  are  indeed  quite  happy,"  answered  his  father. 

Tancredi  smiled  incredulously.  "  How  can  they  be  happy," 
he  exclaimed,  "  when  they  are  a  prey  to  all  the  evil  passions 
that  disturbed  mankind  ?  I  endeavoured  to  reclaim  and  civil- 
ize them;  I  failed  in  the  attempt,  but  I  cannot  think  them 
happy !  "  .       , 

"  Well,"  said  his  father,  quietly,  "  since  you  went  to  Ge- 
neva I  have  seen  a  good  deal  more  of  them  :  I  at  first  found 
them  much  irritated  against  you." 

"  Ha  !  I  knew  it !  "  triumphantly  exclaimed  Tancredi. 

"  But  I  soon  succeeded  in  pacifying  them,"  continued  his 
father,  without  heeding  the  interruption.  Tancredi  looked 
as  though  he  could  have  gladly  dispensed  with  this  instance  of 
paternal  solicitude. 

"  I,  moreover,  tried  to  make  them  happy ;  not  perhaps  ac- 
cording to  the  best  manner,  but  according  to  that  best  suited 
to  them." 

Tancredi's  features  expressed  unqualified  surprise :  he 
seemed  to  wait  for  something  else,  but  his  father  remaining 
silent,  he  at  last  said  :  "  Well,  sir,  I  suppose,  by  making  them 
happy,  you  mean  making  them  better  ?  "  M.  Mathieu  nodded 
affirmatively.  "  If  so,"  continued  his  son,  "  pray  how  did  you. 
rid  M.  Jaequemin  of  his  intolerable  selfishness  and  sordid  love 
of  wealth  ?  " 

"  M.  Jaequemin,"  quietly  answered  the  father,  "  is,  as  you 
say,  selfish,  and  fond  of  money ;  but  he  is  no  miser :  he  has 
no  objection  to  spend  large  sums,  provided  it  is  to  please  him- 
self. Had  I  advised  him,  as  you  did,  to  divide  the  wealth  he 
did  not  need  amongst  the  poor,  he  would  have  looked  upon  me 
as  a  madman.     When  he  complained  to  me  of  his  great  ennui,  I 


342  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

advised  him  to  settle  in  business  some  of  his  poor  nephews  and 
nieces,  whom  he  had  alwaj's  refused  to  see,  lest  they  should 
expect  anything  from  him.  He  at  first  seemed  very  much 
opposed  to  this  plan;  but  when  I  reminded  him  that  after  his 
death  his  fortune  must  belong  to  his  relations,  who  would  per- 
haps squander  it  away,  and  that  it  would  be  more  pleasant  for 
him  to  dispose  of  it,  according  to  his  own  fancy,  during  his 
lifetime,  he  quite  agreed  with  me,  and  immediately  took  steps 
to  place  his  eldest  nephew  in  a  dyer's  business,  which  he  takes 
great  delight  in  superintending.  He  has  likewise  provided  for 
his  other  relations,  with  whom  he  occasionally  quarrels,  but 
towards  whom  he,  nevertheless,  behaves  with  much  real  kind- 
ness. He  still  takes  in  the  papers,  and  has  not  discontinued 
the  soirees;  but  as  he  now  has  little  leisure,  he  is  glad  to  lend 
out  the  former  to  his  friends,  and  enjoys  the  relaxation  of  the 
latter  much  more  than  formerly ;  he  is,  upon  the  whole,  a 
happier  and  a  better  man." 

"  Humph  !  "  almost  contemptuously  exclaimed  Tancredi. 
"  I  had  embraced  all  humanity  in  my  plan;  yours,  I  perceive, 
is  confined  to  making  a  few  persons  happy." 

"  It  is  at  least  the  more  practicable  of  the  two,"  replied 
his  fiither. 

"  And  I  suppose,"  continued  Tancredi,  "  that  you  also  suc- 
ceeded in  reconciling  M.  Laurent  and  Madame  Legrand; 
who,  with  their  insuflerable  love  of  flowers,  and  animals,  and 
mutual  antipathy,  were  enough  to  destroy  all  harmony  where- 
ever  they  appeared  ?  " 

"  1  did  not  endeavour  to  reconcile  them,"  answered  M. 
Mathieu  ;  "  but  when  M.  Laurent  informed  me  of  all  he  had 
to  suficr  from  his  neighbour,  the  widow,  I  advised  him  to 
marry  her,  upon  which  he  told  me  in  confidence  that  he  had 
been  thinking  of  it  for  the  last  ten  years,  and  without  waiting 
for  a  reply,  launched  out  into  her  praises.  In  short,  it  ended 
by  his  requesting  me  to  be  the  bearer  of  a  letter  to  her,  as  he 
averred  that  he  could  not  summon  up  courage  to  address  her 
himself.  I  consented  to  undertake  this  task.  On  reading  the 
letter,  which  was  a  very  long  one,  Madame  Legrand  became 
greatly  agitated,  said  something  about  a  golden  fish,  but  at 
last  declared  that  she  forgave  him  everything." 

"  But  they  are  not  actually  married  !  "  exclaimed  Tan- 
credi. 

"  They  have  been  so  for  the  last  six  weeks,"  replied  M. 
Mathieu. 


SEVEN    YEARS.  343 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say,"  asked  his  son,  "  that  they  nc 
longer  quarrel  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  they  quarrel  every  day  ;  but  as  it  may 
be  safely  asserted  that  it  is  more  from  the  force  of  habit  than 
from  any  other  motive,  they  can  be  said  to  agree  very  well 
upon  the  whole.  Very  little  is  changed  in  their  existence. 
Tiiey  live  in  the  same  house ;  Madame  Laurent  still  occupies 
the  second -floor  with  her  animals,  and  M.  Laurent  the  tliird 
with  his  flowers :  they  enjoy  their  game  of  piquet,  and  its  ac- 
companying squabble,  every  evening;  and  it  is  my  firm  belief 
that  their  greatest  cause  of  complaint  against  you  was  the 
attempt  you  made  to  deprive  theui  of  that  pleasure." 

Taiicredi  turned  up  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and*  in  a  tone 
full  of  indignation,  began,  "  Who  will  attempt  to  fatliom  the 
duplicity  of  man  ?  Who  will  attempt  to  fathom  the  duplicity 
of  man  ?  Who — "  Here  he  became  suddenly  silent,  either 
overwhelmed  by  the  vastness  of  the  subject  of  his  question, 
or  induced  to  hold  his  peace  by  the  aspect  of  the  supper  ou 
the  table. 

Several  days  elapsed  before  Tancredi  be  induced  to  accom- 
pany his  father  on  a  visit  to  M.  Jacquemin.  He  at  last  ex- 
pressed his  consent,  by  declaring  himself  "  ready  to  face  his 
enemies."  His  father,  who  had  learned  to  understand  his 
enigmaticnl  mode  of  speech,  required  no  more.  They  accord- 
ingly called  on  the  retired  dyer  the  same  evening:  the  Bon- 
nets, Laurents,  and  Do  Lorrains,  were  all  present ;  they  seemed 
delighted  to  see  our  hero,  and  received  hitn  witli  the  greatest 
cordiality.  When  his  father  commented  on  this  circumstance, 
Tancredi  smiled  bitterly,  and  muttered  something  about  the 
serpent  being  hidden  by  flowers.  But  the  truth  was,  that 
since  M.  Mathieu  had  given  M.  Jacquemin's  guests  to  under- 
stand that  his  son's  mind  had  been  somewhat  distui-bed  by 
certain  visions,  prevalent  amongst  the  youth  of  France,  their 
anger  had  been  turned  into  pity,  which  they  now  openly  ex- 
pressed. But  of  this  Tancredi  saw,  or  would  see  nothing : 
they  had  hated  him  three  months  back,  they  must  hate  him 
still ;  and  with  this  soothing  unction  to  his  wounded  pride,  he 
endeavom-ed  to  comfort  himself 

Several  years  have  elapsed,  and  no  important  change  has 
occurred  in  the  bosom  of  the  little  society  we  have  attempted 
to  portray.  M.  Jacquemin  has  forgotten  the  name  of  ennui 
since  he  followed  his  friend  M.  jNIathieu's  advice ;  his  poor  re- 
lations are  in  a  thriving  condition,  and  seem  to  feel  much 
gratitude   for   his   kindness.       M.    Bonnet   still   menaces    hia 


344 


SEVEN   YEAKS. 


friends  with  an  inipeuding  European  war;  but  it  has  been 
noticed  that  they  have  now  become  quite  accustomed  to   the 
prediction.      Madame  Bonnet,  whoso  thoughts  are  all  bent  on 
matrimonial  alliances  for  her  daughters,  has  entirely  forgotten 
Abd-el-Kader.     M.  and  Madame  Laurent  quarrel   less   every 
day;  it  is  strongly  suspected  by  their  friends  that   the  time 
will  come  at  last  when  they  will  not  quarrel  at  all  !     The  only 
great  event  which  has  occurred  concerns  the  De  Lorrains;   it 
seems  that,  after  all,  they  were  immensely  rich.     A  law-suit, 
which  lasted  for  several  years,  had  prevented  them  from  enter- 
ing into  the  enjoyment  of  their   fortune.     The   old   hotel   is 
shut  up  :  its  inhabitants  have  removed  to  a  fashionable  neigh- 
bourhood, where  they  live  in  style,  and    keep   their  carriage. 
Circumstances  have  wonderfully  altered  their  outward  appear- 
ance.     They  have  all  quite  a  bold  and  prosperous  air.      They 
frequently  invite   their  former  patrons    to  their  parties ;   but 
either  the  Jacquemin  set  are  hurt  at  the  long  deception  'prac- 
tised upon  them,  or  they  have  not  yet  made  up  their  minds  to 
forgive  the  De   Lorrains  their   sudden  and   unexpected  pros- 
perity ;   for,  with  the  exception  of  the  first  invitation,  which 
they  only  accepted   out   of  curiosity,  they  have  declined   all 
other  requests,  taking  in  high   dudgeon   the   splendour  of  the 
entertainment  offered  to  them.     It  is,  nevertheless,  suspected 
that    they  will  relent  in    time,  if  not   for  their  own    sakes,  at 
least  for  that  of  their  children,  to  whom,  as  Madame   Bonnet 
observes,   they   will,  of  course,  feel   desirous   of  securing  the 
comfort  of  a  rich  acquaintance.      But  Madame  Laurent,  who 
still  entertains  a  grudge  against  her  neighbour,  declares  that 
she  has  other  designs  on  the   De  Lorrains,  and   is  determined 
to  keep  her  eye  upon  her.     We  must  not  forget  to  record  that 
several  of  the  old  ladies  have  been  cut   away  by  the  remorse- 
less hand  of  death.    It  is  worthy  of  notice,  that  those  who  still 
survive  have  never  been  able  to  forget  Tancredi's  unlucky  like- 
ness to  Marat ;   they  evidently  look  upon  this  circumstance  aa 
very  suspicious. 

This  brings  us  naturally  to  our  hero.  Of  him  we  have 
very  little  to  say.  He  is,  to  all  appearance,  as  rosy,  and 
happy-looking,  and  miserable  in  reality  as  ever.  His  father, 
nevertheless,  asserts  that  he  has  of  late  manifested  symptoms 
of  change.  His  hat  is  not  quite  so  pointed,  his  shirt  collar  is 
no  longer  Byrouian,  and  his  hair  has  actually  been  cropped 
quite  close  by  the  neighbouring  hairdresser,  who  declares  that 
he  only  followed  his  positive  orders.  But  what  looks  more 
ominous  still  is,  that  the  name  of  Tancredi  has  vanished  from 


SEVEN    YEARS.  315 

his  cards,  which  now  only  bear  plaiu  P.  Mathieu.  Whatever 
may  be  the  causes  of  this  change — and  whether  it  is  to  be 
attributed  to  his  failure  in  not  being  able  to  become  a  perse- 
cuted man,  or  whether  there  is  some  other  motive  for  it — it 
seems,  nevertheless,  very  probable  that  a  crisis  in  P.  Mathieu's 
character  is  at  hand.  Some  persons  have  been  found  who  be- 
gin to  think,  like  his  father,  that  he  may,  after  all,  settle  down 
into  a  sober,  sensible  individual :  a  supposition  the  more 
probable,  that  he  actually  has  been  heard  to  talk  of  marrying 
and  entering  into  business ;  and  that,  after  all,  his  youthful 
follies  were  more  fit  subjects  for  good-humoured  ridicule  than 
for  real  apprehension — a  remark  which  many  individuals  have 
actually  applied  to  the  Young  France  party  itself. 


ADEIEN". 


In  a  gloomy  and  winding  street  of  the  cite  there  stands  an 
old  crazy-looking  house  seven  stories  high,  which  appears  to 
have  been  most  uncomfortably  squeezed  and  narrowed  up  by 
its  more  modern  neighbours,  and  has  upon  the  whole  an  in- 
secure and  tottering  air.  The  gate  of  this  house,  as  in  all  the 
poorer  dwellings,  stands  ever  open  for  the  convenience  of  the 
numerous  lodgers;  beyond  it  extends  a  low  cellar-like  arch, 
which  terminates  with  a  glimpse  of  an  old  pump  in  a  damp, 
grass-grown  yard  ;  on  the  left  of  the  arch  exists  a  dark  hole 
— the  lodge  wherein  dwells  a  cross  old  portress,  who  has,  not 
unnaturally,  contracted  a  dark  and  misanthropical  view  of  the 
world.  Night  and  day  a  lamp  is  always  burning  in  that  lodge, 
whilst  a  dull,  glimnering  ray  of  light,  descending  from  a  high 
and  remote  window,  reveals  the  winding  staircase  which  leads 
to  the  various  floors  of  the  house. 

It  was  in  a  garret,  situated  on  the  last  of  these  seven 
stories,  that  there  lived,  a  few-years  ago,  an  orphan  lad  named 
Adrien,  and  his  grandmother,  au  old  weak-minded  peasant 
woman,  who  still  appeared  as  great  a  stranger  to  Paris  and 
Parisian  life  as  when  she  entered  for  the  first  time  the  capital 
of  France.  To  the  humble  abode  of  this  obscure  couple  we 
will  now  introduce  the  reader.  The  room  was  indeed  a  mere 
garret,  scarcely  more  than  eight  feet  square,  with  low  ceiling 
and  slanting  walls ;  but  though  narrow  and  bare,  it  was  neat 


346  SEVEN   YEARS. 

and  clean.  The  lit  de  sangle^  or  framed  canvass,  so  common 
among.st  those  of  the  Parisian  poor  who  cannot  afford  room 
for  a  beadstead,  was  folded  up  with  its  thin  mattress  against 
the  wall  ;  the  lame  deal  table  had  been  most  scrupulously 
scrubbed  ;  no  dust  or  stain  appeared  on  the  red-tiled  flooring ; 
a  few  battered  kitchen  utensils  which  hung  on  the  walls 
were  placed  with  a  sort  of  regard  to  symmetry;  a  piece  of 
broken  looking-glass  adorned  the  mantle-shelf;  near  it  waa 
suspeniled  a  five  sous  portrait  of  Napoleon,  under  which  had 
been  placed,  as  if  in  homage,  a  blooming  pot  of  the  modesl 
flower  known  amongst  us  as  the  mignonette,  but  which  in 
France  is  generally  c-alled  reseda.  A  golden  sunbeam  which 
streamed  in  through  the  narrow  and  open  window,  and  fell  on 
the  little  broken  mirror,  brightened  the  whole  place  with  its 
joyous  and  cheerful  light. 

Near  that  window  now  sat  in  a  rickety  arm-chair  Adrien's 
grandmother,  attired  in  her  peasant's  dress  of  short  and 
striped  woollen  petticoat,  blue  jacket,  and  headgear  consisting 
of  a  printed  calico  handkerchief  Without  expressing  either 
ill  health  or  physical  intinnity,  the  old  woman's  sunburnt 
features  betrayed  a  mental  helplessness,  painful  to  behold  as 
she  sat  there  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  knees,  watching 
listlessly  ev^ery  motion  of  her  active  grandson.  With  his 
shrewd  intelligent  countenance,  dark  curly  hair,  and  well  knit, 
though  diminutive  frame,  he  was  only  fifteen,  Adrien  offei'ed 
a  very  favourable  specimen  of  the  Parisian  gamin.  The  con- 
fident bearing,  decisive  attitudes,  and  frank  good-humoured 
accent,  revealed  at  once  a  true  son  of  Paris.  The  lad  was 
now  in  a  state  of  great  bustle  and  preparation — lighting  a 
charcoal  fire,  heating  a  pan  over  it,  melting  dripping,  peeling 
onions,  singing  snatches  of  songs  in  spite  of  his  smarting 
eyes,  throwmg  the  onions  into  the  pan  when  the  dripping  had 
reached  frying  heat,  and,  in  short,  preparing  that  favourite 
French  dish — onion  soup,  which  ere  long  was  smoking  on  the 
table  in  an  old  earthenware  tureen. 

''  Come,  grandmother,"  said  Adrien,  in  a  cheerful  tone, 
"  breakfast  is  ready  ;  "  and  he  closed  his  eyes  and  smacked 
his  lips  as  he  inhaled  the  curling  vapour  which  rose  from  his 
plate.  "  How  rich  it  looks,"  he  added,  admiringly.  "  Upon 
my  word  of  honour,  I  know  nothing  better  for  a  working  man 
than  a  dish  of  onion  soup." 

The  old  woman,  without  seeming  to  share  his  enthusiasm, 
cast  a  dreary  look  on  the  dark  liquid,  and  partook  of  it  very 
alowly.      Not  even  the  manly,  swaggering  tone  with  which 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  347 

Adrien  concluded  his  speech  had  power  to  rouse  her.  It  13 
true  she  was  accustomed  to  it.  When  they  first  began  to  live 
together  a  few  months  before,  she  had  indeed  wondered  with  a 
dreamy  sort  of  perplexity  on  whose  side  the  mistake  lay,  when 
she  thought  Adrien  a  boy,  and  he  evidently  considered  himself 
a  man ;  but  his  cool,  decisive  manner  had  promptly  laid  the 
matter  at  rest,  and  she  would  now  as  soon  have  dreamed  of 
doubting  her  own  identity,  as  of  questioning  his  authority  and 
experience. 

"  Well,  what  shall  we  have  for  dinner  ?  "  said  Adrien,  who 
had  finished  his  soup,  and  balancing  himself  back  on  his  chair 
with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets,  was  now  watching  the 
old  woman. 

"  Let  us  have  a  stew  of  mutton  and  haricots,  Adrien,"  she 
promptly  replied. 

"  Grandmother,"  said  he,  impressively,  "  I  only  earn  six 
francs  (five  shillings)  a  week." 

"  Well  then  a  cabbage  soup,  with  a  good  piece  of  bacon  in  it." 

"  Bacon  is  horribly  dear  ;  but  if  you  like  the  cabbage  with- 
out it — " 

"  No  I  don't,"  was  the  snappish  answer. 

"  1  should  propose  sorrel  soup,"  continued  Adrien,  "  but  it 
is  no  good  without  eggs,  which  we  cannot  aiford  ;  or  bean  soup 
if  we  had  only  got  beans,  which  we  have  not.  Do  you  know," 
he  confidentially  added,  "  that  we  have  some  dripping,"  his 
eyes  fell  on  an  earthen  pot  standing  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
*'  and  plenty  of  onions,"  he  glanced  at  a  bunch  hanging  from  a 
nail  oil  the  wall;  "  do  you  know  I  think  we  could  not  do  bet- 
ter than  to  have  a  good,  hot,  smoking  tureenful  of  onion  soup." 

*'  Onion  soup  1  "  indignantly  exclaimed  the  old  woman ; 
"  why  we  have  had  onion  soup  all  the  week  ;  Adrien,"  she  pa- 
thetically added,  "  do  you  mean  to  say  we  must  live  on  onion 
soup  ?  "  Adrien  looked  embarrassed,  but  he  resolutely  re- 
plied : 

"  Yes,  grandmother,  we  must — if  we  cannot  help  it." 

"  Onion  soup  made  with  dripping,  too,"  she  mournfully 
added,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro,  "  and  never  even  a  drop  of 
wine." 

"  Grandmother,"  observed  her  grandson,  very  gravely,  and 
pausing  in  his  task  of  clearing  away  the  breakfast  things,  "  you 
know  Paris  wine  gives  you  the  headache.  You  reaiember,"  he 
added,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  how  strangely  yoii  behaved  when  that 
wicked  Madame  Mitron,  next  door,  persuaded  you  to  go  with 
her  to  the  barrier.     No,  no,  wine  is  not  good  for  you.     It  ex- 


348  SEVEJsr  teaes. 

cites  you,"  said  he,  after  seeming  at  a  loss  for  tlie  proper 
word,  "  it  excites  you." 

"  Aud  to  live  in  such  a  garret !  "  she  continued,  without 
heeding  him. 

"  Garret !  "  he  echoed,  glancing  admiringly  round  him ; 
"  why,  have  you  not  a  good  warm  bed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Adrieu,  but  you  sleep  on  the  floor." 

"  I  prefer  it,"  he  hastily  replied ;  "  it  is  more  wholesome, 
you  see.  "  And  then,"  he  resumed,  "  have  you  not  got  a  por- 
trait of  the  Emperor,  and  a  looking-glass,  and  a  pot  of  reseda, 
and  the  sun  that  comes  in  every  morning ;  and  always  plenty 
of  bread  aud  soup  to  eat  ?  " 

"  Onion  soup,  Adricn." 

"  Add  to  which  advantage,"  said  Adrien,  summing  up, 
"  that  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  about  Paris  all  day 
long,  or,  if  you  prefer  staying  at  home,  to  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow aud  enjoy  yourself" 

"  And  look  at  the  smoky  chimney  pots,"  replied  the  old 
woman,  despondingly. 

"  Grandmother,  I  wonder  at  you !  You  know  that  you 
have  only  to  place  the  table  near  the  window — mind  the  broken 
foot  though — and  put  a  chair  on  the  table,  and  get  up  on  the 
chair  yourself,  in  order  to  have  the  finest  view  possible  of  the 
towers  of  Notre  Dame." 

But  a  prospect  of  the  Paris  cathedral,  though  thus  ob- 
tained, did  cot  seem  to  comfort  Adrien's  old  relative.  She  did 
not  like  Notre  Dame ;  it  was  too  large  and  gloomy ;  she  wanted 
the  little,  white,  sunny  church  of  her  own  village ;  she  wanted 
that  village  itself,  with  its  comfortable  dwellings  and  well-stored 
larders,  and  abundance  of  all  good  things.  Paris  was  a  drear, 
dismal  place,  and  Paris  she  would  leave. 

"  Impossible,"  interposed  Adrien.  "  In  the  first  place,  you 
know  you  have  no  one  to  go  back  to  in  your  own  village,  as 
you  call  it;  but  even  if  you  had,"  he  added,  with  an  important 
air,  "  I  could  not  allow  you  to  go." 

The  old  woman  looked  up  quite  bewildered.  "  You  do 
not  mean  to  say,  Adrien,  that  you  would  keep  me  here  against 
my  will '?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  Come,"  said  he,  sitting  down  by  her,  and 
speaking  with  sudden  gravity,  "  you  know — for  you  were  by — ■ 
and  it  is  not  long  ago,  what  my  poor  fiither  said  to  me  on  hia 
death-bed,  '  Adrien,  my  boy,'  said  he,  '  I  am  going  away;  God 
bless  you ;  be  an  honest  working  man  ;  pay  your  way  and  take 
sare  of  your  poor  old  grandmother.'     Now,"  observed  Adrian, 


SEVEN   TEAES.  849 

after  a  little  pause,  "  an  honest  ■working  man  I  believe  I  am ; 
my  way  I  have  paid  till  now ;  we  are  not  like  old  Madame 
Mitron,  who  drinks  all  sbe  has,  never  pays  her  rent,  and  looks 
another  way  when  she  passes  before  the  sour  old  portress's 
lodge;  we  can  look  the  landlord  himself  straight  in  tlie  face, 
grandmother;  but  that  is  not  all,  and  I  should  not  have  done 
my  father's  will  if  I  did  not  take  care  of  you ;  so  you  see  you 
must  remain  with  me.      After  all  I  do  earn  six  francs  a  week." 

"  You  are  a  good  lad,  Adrien,"  exclaimed  his  grandmother, 
sobbing  and  throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck  in  a  sudden  re- 
vulsion of  feelino;. 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  with  gravity,  "  I  only  do  my  duty  as  an 
honest  man,  you  know." 

By  this  time  it  was  getting  late ;  and,  as  Adrien  said, 
quite  time  for  him  to  be  gone  to  his  work.  But  whilst  com- 
pleting his  preparations — for  he  was  extremely  neat  and  care- 
ful of  his  person — he  undertook  to  administer  consolations  to 
his  grandmother,  whose  tears  were  still  flowing. 

"  Come,  grandmother,  don't  cry,  we  all  have  our  troubles. 
If  you  knew  what  we  carpenters  have  to  endure ;  and  if  one 
happens  to  be  short,  what  advantage  is  taken  of  it.  Look  at 
that  Grand  Jean,  who,  because  he  is  six  foot  high,  cannot 
meet  one  on  the  staircase  without  talking  of  tom-tits.  Ah, 
grandmother,  if  it  were  not  for  you — ,"  and  a  significant  and 
ominous  frown  gathe-red  over  the  boy's  smooth  brow  as  he 
spoke. 

"  Holy  virgin  !  "  screamed  the  old  woman,  "  you  don't 
think,  Adrien,  of  attacking  that  big,  tall  man  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  I  do  not,"  gravely  answered  her  grandson ; 
I  hope  I  know  my  duty  to  you  better.  Why,  suppose  Jean 
aud  I  were  to  have  an  affair,  and  I  to  hit  him,  and  hurt  him, 
I  should  certainly  be  sent  to  prison  ;  and  then,"  he  pathetically 
added,  "  then  what  would  become  of  you?  "  Adrien  seemed 
overwhelmed  with  emotion  at  the  idea.  But  he  was  now  quite 
ready ;  so  slinging  his  basket  of  tools  over  his  shoulder,  he 
embraced  his  grandmother,  and  hesitatingly  observed,  "  if  old 
Madam-e  Mitron  should  try  and  lure  you  to  the  barrier,  grand- 
mother, you  will  not  go?  " 

"  No,"  she  slowly  replied. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  colouring  as  he  alluded  to  his  old 
relative's  secret  infirmity,  "  that  wine  excites  you.  I  shall  be 
back  at  two,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "so  pray  try  and 
have  the  onion  soup  ready." 

The   name   of  this   unlucky   dish   immediately  brought   a 


850  SEVEN   TEAES. 

cloud  over  the  old  woman's  brow^  and  as  she  closed  the  door, 
Adrien  heard  her  muttering  "  onion  soup  !  "  indignantly. 

Scarcely  had  Adrien  issued  on  the  landing,  when  a  doot 
opposite  gently  opened,  and  aSorded  him  a  glimpse  of  a  very 
red  and  pimpled  face.  "  So  old  Mitron  wants  to  see  me  out 
before  she  begins  her  tricks  with  poor  grandmother,"  thought 
Adrien.  Madame  Mitron,  seeing  herself  discovered,  no  longer 
aifected  concealment,  and  nodding  at  Adrien,  with  what  he 
considered  a  most  insolent  familiarity,  for  he  was  apt  to  be 
wonderfully  ticklish  on  small  points  of  dignity,  cavalierly  ad- 
dressed him  with  a  "  Bonjour,  Adrien." 

"  Bonjour,  Madame,"  he  loftily  replied;  "allow  me  to  ob- 
serve that  you  might  say.  Monsieur  Adrien." 

"  Pray,  how  long  have  we  called  ourselves  Monsieur 
Adrien  ? "  she  asked,  with  a  sneer ;  and  Madame  Mitron 
burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter  which  shook  her  dropsical  frame. 
"  Very  amusing,"  she  observed,  when  her  merriment  was  over  ; 
and  she  clapped  the  door  in  his  face.  Adrien  disliked  Mad- 
ame Mitron,  and  not  without  a  cause ;  "  she  was  always,"  he 
said,  "  endeavouring  to  corrupt  his  innocent  grandmother,  lur- 
ing her  to  the  barrier,  where  she  got  excited  with  adulterated 
wine."  He  was  sure  his  grandmother  was  no  drunkard;  she 
was  only  new  to  Paris,  and  to  the  necessity  of  living  on  six 
francs  a  week.  If  she  would  only  believe  him  when  he  as- 
sured her  they  were  very  comfortable  upon  the  whole.  But 
she  would  persist  in  preferring  butter  to  dripping,  meat  to 
onion  soup,  and  wine  to  water !  Foolish  grandmother  !  But 
he  loved  her  for  all  that,  and  even  with  a  sort  of  pride ;  she 
has  been  very  handsome,  he  often  thought,  as  he  looked  ad- 
miringly at  her  sunburnt  and  wrinkled  features,  where  to  no 
other  eyes  would  a  trace  of  beauty  have  been  visible.  Then 
on  a  Sunday,  when  she  donned  her  holiday  gear,  and  they 
went  out  together,  how  he  admired  her  with  her  high  white 
cap,  the  gold  cross  suspended  from  her  neck,  and  the  short 
and  full  petticoat  of  flaring  pattern.  They  might  have  been 
so  happy,  but  for  Madame  Mitron;  why  did  that  weak  grand- 
mother yield  to  her  wicked  advice,  and  entrust  her  with  a  gold 
cross  and  little  articles  of  country  finery,  which,  through  her 
agency,  were  speedily  converted  into  barrier  banquets  ?  And 
to  think  that,  after  causing  all  this  mischief,  Madame  Mitron 
should  presume  to  insult  him  ! 

This  was  not  destined  to  be  Adrien's  only  tribulation  on 
this  unlucky  morning ;  at  a  turn  of  the  staircase  he  suddenly 
found  himself  face   to   face  with  Grand  Jean.     Grand  Jean 


SEVEN   TEARS.  351 

was  a  big,  lieavy,  good-tempered  working  man,  a  native  of  the 
monutains  of  Auvergne,  who  resided  in  the  same  house  with 
Adrien  ;  the  lad's  pretensions  to  e(pality  seemed  to  afford 
him  infinite  amusement  whenever  they  met,  but  when  fiery 
little  Adrien  attempted  to  annoy  and  provoke  him  in  his  turn, 
the  colossal  Jean  evidently  considered  the  joke  rich  beyond 
description.  He  now  gave  him  a  good-humoured  nod  and 
smile,  for  he  liked  the  lad  in  his  heart,  and  greeted  him  with, 
"  and  how  are  we  getting  on  this  fine  morning,  Adrien  ?  ' 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Adrien,  in  a  sharp  tone,  and  with  a 
peculiarly  defiant  jerk  of  his  head  ;  "  please  to  allow  me  to 
pass,"  he  imperatively  added,  for  the  burly  form  of  Jean  ob- 
structed the  narrow  staircase. 

''  Of  course,"  said  Jean ;  and.  without  standing  on  one 
side,  he  raised  his  arm  horizontally,  apparently  intimating 
that  Adrien  was  welcome  to  pass  underneath  it.  Truth  com- 
pels us  to  declare  that  he  could  have  done  so  without  the 
greatest  inconvenience. 

"  Sir  !  "  said  Adrien,  colouring  to  the  very  temples. 

"  So  we  are  getting  in  a  pet,  as  usual,"  benignantly  re- 
marked Grand  Jean,  making  room  for  him,  and  geutly  pattiug 
him  on  the  head  as  he  spoke. 

•'  Sir  ! "  cried  Adrien,  in  a  shriller  tone,  and  pulling  his 
cap  over  his  eyebrows,  for  he  was  perfectly  exasperated ;  but 
Jean,  with  provoking  indifference  and  good  humour,  continued 
to  ascend  the  staircase,  merely  turning  round  to  give  Adrieu 
a  last  friendly  nod  as  he  vanished  from  his  sight. 

"  It  is  better  to  bear  it  quietly,  for  the  sake  of  grand- 
mother," heroically  observed  Adrien  to  himself;  but  he  swal- 
lowed the  affront  very  unwillingly,  and  considered  himself  an 
extremely  ill  used  individual.  And,  indeed,  was  he  quite 
fairly  treated  ?  Left  on  his  own  resources  whilst  still  a  boy, 
he  had  to  support  himself  and  his  old  relative ;  nay,  even  to 
control  her  conduct,  and  assume  all  the  duties  and  responsi- 
bilities of  a  man ;  but  he  was  expected  to  do  this  without  tak 
ing  any  of  the  state  and  dignity  of  the  character  he  had  to 
sustain.  Fortunately  for  Adrien,  he  did  not  behold  the  mat- 
ter in  this  light.  His  self-delusion  with  regard  to  his  pwn 
importance  was  without  the  alloy  of  a  doubt,  and  he  ascribed 
to  individual  perverseness  the  occasional  mortifications  he 
endured.  But  as  these  mortifications  were  highly  unpleasant, 
and  as  the  best  of  us  must  occasionally  indulge  in  some  trifling 
weakness,  Adrien,  in  order  to  soothe  his  wounded  pride,  now 
thought  fit  to  pause  before  the  misanthropical  portress's  lodge 


853  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

— that  dark  hole  where  the  lamp,  like  the  sacred  fire  on  the 
altar  of  Vesta,  was  kept  ever  burning;  and,  thrusting  in  his 
head,  to  observe  with  a  condescending  nod  and  gracious  smile  . 
"  And  how  are  we  getting  r n  to-.day,  Mere  Moreau  ?  " 

The  old  portress,  who  was  skimming  her  soup  near  the  fire, 
looked  up  with  mute  surprise,  and  for  one  moment  the  ladle 
paused  in  its  office;  but  before  she  could  recover  from  the 
amazement  into  which  this  audacious  intrusion  had  thrown  her, 
Adrien  vanished.  This  little  ebullition  of  vanity  restored  him 
at  once  to  his  usual  equanimity  of  temper.  He  left  the  dingy 
old  house,  singing  like  a  lark,  and  went  down  the  winding 
street  in  the  best  possible  humour  with  himself  and  the  whole 
world. 

At  two  exactly  the  gay  little  Adrien  reappeared  under  the 
cellar-like  arch,  and  he  was  hastening  up  the  gloomy  staircase 
with  his  light  and  buoyant  step,  when  the  cracked  voice  of 
Madame  Moreau  called  him  back.  He  turned  round  and  be- 
held that  lady's  thin  visage  scowling  at  him  from  the  entrance 
of  the  dark  hole  where  she  spent  her  life.  "  Here  is  the  key 
of  your  room,"  she  sharply  said. 

"  Is  grandmother  out  ?  "  he  falteringly  asked,  as  he  took 
the  key. 

"  Yes,  she  is,  and  with  Madame  Mitron  too  !  "  and  giving 
Adrien  a  look  of  resentful  defiance,  the  portress  vanished  in 
her  den.  Adrien  slowly  ascended  the  staircase.  How  changed 
now  looked  the  empty  room.  No  neatly-laid  table  with  the 
hot  smoking  soup  awaited  him  after  his  hard  morning's  work. 
The  poor  lad  looked  around  him,  sat  down,  and  bowing  his 
face  between  his  hands,  fairly  wept.  Of  what  use  did  it  seem 
for  him  to  work  so  hard,  to  be  frugal  and  thrifty  beyond  his 
years,  to  save  and  stint  in  order  to  live  on  the  six  francs  a 
week,  to  come  home  with  his  light  and  cheerful  bearing.  His 
grandmother  was  gone,  disgracing  herself — disgracing  him. 
When  or  how  would  she  come  back  ?  This  last  thought  was 
indeed  a  thought  of  terror ;  the  young  are  keenly  alive  to  dis- 
grace. Adrien  believe  that  his  grandmother's  indiscretions  had 
until  now  escaped  notice  ;  every  one  in  the  house  knew  of  them, 
but  with  the  native  delicacy  of  French  politeness,  all  feigned 
perfect  unconsciousness ;  even  cross  old  Mere  Moreau  spared  the 
lad's  sensitive  pride.  "  How  cleverly  I  must  have  managed  to 
smuggled  her  in,"  he  often  thought,  with  secret  exultation ; 
and  when  he  gave  a  sigh  to  his  old  relative's  errors,  he  reflect- 
ed, like  Francis  I.  after  the  battle  of  Pavia,  that  honour  at 
least  was  safe.     But  if  an  exposure   should   take  place  now 


SEVEN    YEARS.  353 

Oh  !  then  he  must  leave  the  house  instaiitly — uay,  the  neigh- 
bourhood itself,  and  dim  visions  of  quitting  Paris  altogether 
even  floated  across  his  brain.  Adrien  was  too  sad  to  prepare 
onion  soup,  so  he  dined  on  bread  and  dripping.  Madame  Mo- 
reau  noticed  his  altered  bearing  and  inflamed  eyes,  though  he 
turned  his  head  away,  as  he  handed  her  the  key  on  going  down  ; 
she  took,  or  rather  snatched  it  from  him  with  her  usual  surliness, 
but  her  heart  was  touched  at  the  lad's  evident  sorrow. 

Amongst  the  habirs  of  this  lady  (who  had  many)  was  that 
of  emerging  from  her  lodge  towards  twilight,  like  a  night  bird, 
in  order  to  spend  the  fine  summer  evenings  on  the  steps  of  the 
street  door.  From  this  tribunal  of  her  misanthropy  she  phil- 
osophically surveyed  the  world,  her  arms  defiantly  fulded  on 
her  breast,  her  head  inclined  towards  her  right  slioulder,  in 
mournful  contemplation  of  human  follies, — her  whole  attitude 
expressive  of  supreme  disdain.  A  scornful  sneer  lit  up  her 
solemn  feature  on  these  occasions,  and  bitterly  sarcastic  re- 
marks fell  from  her  lips.  These  remarks  were  not  narrowly 
confined  to  peculiar  subjects,  or  directed  to  certain  individuals. 
Attacks  on  o-overnraeut,  with  Madame  Moreau's  own  sug-o-es- 
tions,  sneers  at  rival  portresses  over  the  way,  lamb-like  com- 
plaints of  her  own  private  wrongs,  hints  to  ungrateful  lodgers, 
who  might  regret  her  when  she  was  dead  and  gone,  mingled 
witli  sudden  and  fierce  apostrophes  directed  towards  unconscious 
and  inoffensive  passengers,  formed  the  staple  of  discourses  ad- 
dressed to  the  world  in  general,  but  of  which  the  lodgers,  who 
constantly  came  in  and  out  at  this  hour,  derived  the  full  bene- 
fit. And  much  did  they  dread  these  evening  objurgations  in 
which,  with  her  broken,  half-abstracted  manner,  Madame 
Moreau  contrived  to  disclose  to  the  public  their  most  private 
concerns.  If  Monsieur  B.  ill-used  his  wife,  the  portress  railed 
at  the  men  straightway,  and  with  singular  generosity  she  only 
became  the  more  explicit  in  her  narrative  if  there  happened  to 
exist  any  little  difference  between  herself  and  Madame  B. 

His  knowledge  of  this  touching  peculiarity  increased 
Adrien's  apprehensions  as  he  came  home  in  the  evening. 
What  if  the  old  woman  had  returned,  and  Madame  Moreau, 
mindful  of  the  morning,  should  pity  him  aloud  for  having  a 
drunken  grandmother  !  Oh,  that  there  were  only  a  back 
door !  But  there  was  none  :  and  standing  in  awful  majesty 
on  the  threshold  of  the  arch,  with  a  group  of  lodgers  listening 
to  her,  he  beheld  Madame  Moreau.  He  took  courage,  how- 
ever, and  assuming  a  disengaged  air,  addressed  the  portress 
with  a  remark  concerning  the  fineness  of  the  weather.     She 


354  SEVEN    YEARS. 

gave  him  a  sour  look  that  implied,  "  Do  not  imasine  you  can 
cheat  or  deceive  me ;  "  but  she  merely  said,  "  Sir,  your  key 
is  hanging  on  a  nail  in  the  lodge." 

Adrien  sighed  to  leani  that  his  grandmother  had  not  yet 
returned ;  but  with  all  that,  he  felt  grateful  for  the  old  por- 
tress's forbearance.  It  was  a  sad  evening  for  the  lad,  as  he 
sat  in  the  dark,  stepping  out  on  the  landing  every  five  minutes, 
peeping  down  the  well-like  staircase,  listening  anxiously  when 
a  knock  was  heard  below,  and  feeling  his  heart  leap  up  to  his 
mouth  every  time  the  street  door  opened  and  closed  again. 
.Deceived  by  the  step  of  other  lodgers,  he  thought  two  or  three 
times  the  truant  was  returned ;  a  solemn  moral  reproof  rose 
to  his  lips;  nay,  he  would  feign  sleep  and  perfect  indiifei'-ence. 
But  none  of  the  steps  ascended  the  seventh  story,  and  every 
time  his  illusion  vanished  Adrien's  sorrow  came  back.  The 
house  had  long  been  silent,  when,  towards  eleven,  be  heard  a 
weak  tottering  footstep.  "  It  is  only  the  lodger  below," 
thouo;ht  he,  anxious  not  to  deceive  himself.  But  the  staircase 
creaked,  the  step  continued  to  ascend,  it  stopped  on  the  land- 
ing, ani  a  light  gleamed  through  tlie  chink  of  his  door. 
Adrien  opened  it  and  saw  Madame  Mitron ;    she  was  alone. 

"  Where  is  grandmother  '?  "  he  hastily  exclaimed. 

"  Don't  know,"  she  thickly  replied,  endeavouring  to  open 
her  door. 

"  You  shall  not  go  in  ;  where  is  she  !  "  cried  Adrien,  placing 
himself  before  her. 

"  I  tell  you  I  do  not  know,"  testily  replied  the  old  woman. 
"  We  went  to  the  barrier  for  a  walk,  had  a  salad,  a  glass  of 
wine,  and  were  coming  home,  when  a  crowd  divided  us  at  the 
end  of  the  Pont-Neuf.  A  child  had  been  run  over ;  people 
said  it  was  not  hurt ;  but  I  had  got  such  a  turn,  that  I  was  obliged 
to  take  live  or  six  glasses  of  brandy  at  a  grocer's  before  I  could 
get  over  it." 

"So,"  indignantly  said  Adrien,  "  you  lurel  away  my  weak, 
innocent  grandmother — the  poor  thing  would  never  go  to  the 
barrier — and  then  abandoned  her,  when  she  does  not  know 
one  street  from  another,  and  may  get  into  any  mischief.  God 
forgive  you  !  "  lie  mournfully  added,  as  he  turned  away,  with 
heart  too  full  for  more  bitter  reproach. 

"  God  forgive  me !  you  good-for-nothing  little  scamp," 
screamed  MJtlame  Mitron  with  sudden  rage,  her  eyes  well 
nigh  starting  out  of  her  head,  as  she  shook  her  candlestick  at 
Adrien.  "God  forgive  me!  How  dare  you  hint  at  such  a 
thing,  you  mite,  you — " 


SEVEN   TEAES.  855 

The  rest  was  lost  upon  Adrien,  wlio  hastily  descended  the 
staircase,  heedless  of  her  drunken  railings. 

"Monsieur  Adrien,  if  you  think  1  am  going  to  sit  up  for 
yoit"  wrathiully  observed  the  old  portress,  as  he  swiftly  passed 
by  her  lodge ;  but  the  door  being  half  open,  he  had  reached 
the  street  before  the  end  of  her  sentence.  He  went  straight  to 
the  Pont-Neuf;  the  accident  had  occurred  at  noon;  no  one 
had  seen  his  grandmother  ;  a  few  shops  were  still  open  ;  he 
went  in,  made  inquiries,  and  got  laughed  at  for  his  pains. 
After  wandering  up  and  down  until  one,  he  went  home,  con- 
vinced that,  in  the  agony  of  her  remorse,  his  grandmother  had 
made  away  with  herself.  "  She  need  not  have  been  afraid,  I 
would  have  forgiven  her,"  sadly  thought  Adrien.  He  had  at 
first  doubted  whether  his  knock  at  the  door  would  procure  him 
admittance,  but  when,  in  reply  to  a  shrill  inquiry,  he  had  given 
his  name,  it  quickly  opened.  On  seeing  that  he  was  alone, 
Madame  Moreau  gave  a  peculiar  look  and  growled  from  be- 
neath the  shadow  of  her  peaked  night-cap,  and  handing  him  a 
light,  an  act  of  singular  courtesy,  said,  "  take  that,"  almost 
gently. 

Notwithstanding  his  sorrow,  Adrien  slept  that  night — 
youth  will  sleep — but  with  a  sad,  troubled  slumber.  Though 
the  sun  shone  brightly  in  the  little  room  when  he  woke  up,  he 
felt  miserable.  The  unswept  floor,  the  fragment  of  his  last 
hurried  meal  on  the  table,  the  dusty  mantel-shelf,  the  pot  of 
res6da  drooping  for  want  of  water,  everything,  even  an  old 
gown  of  his  grandmother's  thrown  on  a  cbair,  made  him  feel 
dispirited  and  low.  He  rose  and  dressed  hurriedly ;  for 
breakfast  he  cared  not ;  bread  and  dripping  would  do  very 
well.  Scarcely  was  he  attired  when  a  knock  was  heard  at  the 
door.  "  Tidings  from  her,"  thought  Adrien,  and  he  rushed 
to  open.  Alas  !  no  ;  it  was  only  misanthropic  Madame  Moreau, 
with  an  immense  soup-plate  full  of  good  beef-tea  in  her  hand. 

"  Come,  take  it,"  said  she,  abruptly ;  "  you  want  it,  wan- 
dering all  night ;  those  who  did  the  mischief  were  safe  in  bed  ; 
maybe  they  have  good  reasons  to  stay  there,"  she  added,  talk- 
ing and  nodding  with  deep  sarcasm  at  the  door  of  Madame 
Mitron.  "  But  next  Monday  is  rent  day  ;  we  shall  see  whether 
those  that  drink  and  do  not  pay  are  to  remain.  Will  you  take 
this  hot  plate  out  of  my  hand,  or  am  I  to  stay  here  all  day '?  " 
she  sharply  added,  turning  round  on  Adrien.  He  was  profuse 
in  his  acknowledgments,  but  without  heeding  them,  she  hob- 
bled down-stairs,  muttering  her  wonder  that  she  had  ever  come 
up,  and  looking  very  surly,  as  though  to  apologize  to  herself 


856  SEVEN   YEAKS. 

for  having  committed  this  little  act  of  kindness.  As  he  drank 
his  soup,  Adrien  thought  how  much  his  grandmother  would 
have  relished  it,  and  then  he  wondered  where  she  was  that 
morning,  and  whether  she  had  got  any  breakfast.  This  latter 
thought  made  him  feel  that  he  must  resume  his  search  without 
loss  of  an  instant.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  ready,  and  pro- 
ceeded hastily  down-stairs.  He  had  reached  a  third-floor 
when  a  hand  laid  heavily  on  his  shoulder,  made  him  turn 
rouffld ;  he  looked  up  and  saw  Grand  Jean. 

"  Adrien,"  said  the  tall  Auvergnat,  in  a  bashful,  hesitating 
sort  of  manner,  "  I  am  not  busy  this  morning ;  I — I — can  go 
with  you,  and  heljj  to  look." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  replied  Adrien;  and  as  he  shook 
Jean's  hand,  he  turned  his  head  away ;  ■'  very,  especially  after 
the  insulting  manner  in  which  I  spoke  to  you  yesterday." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Jean,  squeezing  the  lad's  hand  so  hard 
that  other  tears  besides  those  of  emotion  rushed  to  his  eyes ; 
"you  never  insulted  me,  child." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  did,"  remorsefully  answered  Adrien.  "  It 
was  the  tone,  you  know  !  " 

"  Well,  never  mind  ;  I  forgive  you." 

"  Impossible  !  "  resumed  Adrien,  somewhat  nettled  ;  "  you 
do  not  know  the  badness  there  was  in  my  heart  against  you.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  grandmother's  sake,  I  would  have  knocked 
you  down." 

"  Would  you,  indeed,"  said  Jean,  with  a  grave,  good- 
humoured  smile,  and  giving  the  lad  a  slap  on  the  shoulder 
that  made  him  stagger. 

"  Yes,  I  would,"  stoutly  said  Adrien,  as  soon  as  he  had 
recovered  his  breath  ;  "  so  pray,"  he  mournfully  added,  "  do 
not  be  kind  ;    I  cannot  bear  it." 

"  I  tell  you  I  bear  no  malice  ;  and  you  are  such  an  in- 
significant-looking little  fellow,  that  people  will  never  mind 
you  if  you  go  alone  ;  so  let  us  be  otf.  " 

Adrien  bridled  up,  and  wondered  whether  he  could  in 
honour  accept  of  assistance  thus  oifered.  But  Jean  settled 
the  matter  by  taking  it  for  gi'antod  ;  and  the  lad,  moreover, 
secretly  felt  the  force  of  his  reasoning;  so  without  further  re- 
sistance on  his  part,  they  sallied  out.  It  was  a  hot,  sultry  day, 
and  a  long  and  weary  walk  they  had.  They  visited  barriers, 
and  innumerable  corps  de  gardes,  or  station  houses,  but  nc 
grandmother  could  be  found.  "  It  is  my  fault,"  said  Adrien, 
desperately  ;  "  I  should  have  locked  her  up."  Jean  with  dif- 
ficulty persuaded  him  that  he   was  not   to  blame.     After  a 


SEVEN   TEARS.  357 

Bearch  of  several  hours,  Jean  began  to  lose  all  hope,  but 
Adrien  seemed  unwearied.  They  at  length  lit  on  a  clue  to 
the  object  of  their  search  in  a  remote  corps  de  garde.  An 
old,  half-witted  peasant-woman,  unable  to  give  a  proper  ac- 
count of  herself,  had  been  apprehended  the  preceding  even- 
ing. 

"  Where  is  she  1  "  cried  Adrien,  eagerly  looking  round. 
"  Oh  !  she  was  gone  before  the  magistrate,  and  was  probably 
tried  for  vat!-abonda2,e  1)v  this  !  " 

"  Oh !  Jean  !  "  exclaimed  Adrien,  "  let  us  go  before  they 
send  her  to  prison." 

He  started  oft",  and  sped  along  the  street  at  a  rate  with 
which  Jean  could  scarcely  keep  up,  and  which  made  sober 
passengers  stare.  At  length  the  police-court  was  reached  ;  it 
was  crowded  ;  Adrien  pushed  right  and  left  desperately,  but 
in  vain,  till  Grand  Jean,  with  two  or  three  vigorous  elbowings, 
had  cleared  the  way  lor  his  friend.  Adrien  paused  not  to 
utter  thanks  ;  he  sprang  forward  to  the  front  of  the  court ; 
a  rapid  glance  showed  him  that  the  bewildered  old  woman  who 
sat  at  the  bar  wringing  her  hands,  and  answering,  with  per- 
plexed look,  the  questions  of  the  magistrate,  was  indeed,  his 
grandmother.  Forgetting  everything  in  his  joy,  he  hastily 
exclaimed  with  his  own  cheerful  confident  voice,  "  Do  not  be 
afraid,  grandmother  ;  I  am  here  ;  they  won't  hurt  you." 

The  old  woman  uttered  a  low  exclamation,  whilst  every 
look  went  round  the  court  in  search  of  her  protector,  and  lit 
at  length  on  the  diminutive  form  of  Adrien  with  mingled 
amazement  and  surprise. 

"  Who  is  that  child  ?  What  does  he  want  ?  "  asked  the 
magistrate. 

"  I  am  not  a  child,  sir,"  said  Adrien,  colouring,  and  rais- 
ing himself  on  tiptoe,  "  I  am  a  working  man.  I  earn  six 
francs  a  week.  I  am  come  for  my  grandmother,  whom  Mad- 
ame Mitron  lured  away." 

"  Is  this  old  woman  your  grandmother  1 "  said  the  magis- 
trate, smiling. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Adrien,  sighing.  "  If  she  only  took 
my  advice,  and  not  Madame  Mitron's,  she  would  not  be  here. 
I  am  sure,"  he  continued,  somewhat  huskily,  "I  do  not  ill-use 
her ;  I  would  scorn  to  ill-use  a  woman,  much  less  my  own 
grandmother.  But  then  she  does  not  like  dripping  nor  onion 
Boup,  and  we  cannot  atlbrd  butter  or  fricot  (stew)." 

'•  Do  not  be  hard  upon  me,  Adrien,"  sobbed  the  old 
woman. 


358  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

"  No,  grandmother,  I  will  not,  and  I  am  sure  Monsieur  le 
President  looks  too  kind  to  be  liard  upon  you  either.  Monsieur 
will  reflect  that  you  are  old,  weak-minded,  and  that  Madame 
Mitron,  who  is  very  cunning,  takes  you  out  to  drink  at  your 
expense.  You  do  not  drink,  grandmother,"  he  added,  anxious 
to  save  her  from  the  reproach  of  diankenness,  that  most  un- 
womanly vice,  so  rare  in  France. 

"And  Monsieur  le  President,"  here  interposed  Jean,  laying 
his  heavy  hand  on  Adrien's  shoulder,  "  spare  the  old  woman  for 
the  sake  of  the  lad,  as  honest  a  one  as  ever  breathed.  If,"  he 
continued,  heedless  of  Adrien'o  mdignant  looks,  "  if  he  does 
talk  too  much  like  a  man,  for  one  with  such  a  beardless  chin, 
why  I  say  it  is  because  he  has  the  heart  of  a  man." 

The  magistrate  smiled.  "  You  are  discharged,"  said  he  to 
the  old  woman.  "  Believe  me,  abide  by  your  grandson's  ad- 
vice, and  shun  Madame  Mitron." 

He  rose,  for  this  was  the  last  case,  the  assembly  dispersed, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  place  was  empty. 

Adrien's  grandmother  looked  very  much  humbled  and  cast 
down  as  they  went  home.  This  distressed  him  infinitely  ;  he 
did  his  best  to  cheer  her,  invented  numberless  excuses  for  her, 
and  threw  all  the  blame  on  luckless  Madame  Mitron. 

"  But  where  is  Jean  ?  "  said  he,  suddenly  breaking  off,  and 
looking  round  as  they  turned  the  corner  of  their  own  street. 
Jean  had  vanished,  and  though  Adrien  knew  it  not,  it  was 
some  time  since  they  had  parted  company.  Although  evening 
was  drawing  on,  Madame  Moreau  did  not  occupy  that  post  on 
the  door-step  from  which  she  surveyed  and  attacked  the  world. 
Adrien  peeped  into  the  lodge  as  he  took  his  key ;  the  lamp 
was  as  usual  dimly  burning,  but  she  who  kept  alive  that  sacred 
flame  was  invisible. 

"  Grandmother,"  said  Adrien,  as  they  went  up  the  stair- 
case, "  you  are  hungry  of  course ;  but,"  added  he,  looking  at 
her  wistfully,  "  I  can  only  give  you  onion  soup." 

"  Anything,  Adrien,"  sobbed  the  old  woman  ;  "  dripping 
itself  is  too  good  for  me." 

"  No,  that  it  is  not,"  said  he,  resolutely ;  and  if,"  he  add- 
ed, raising  his  voice,  "•  if  any  one  should  look  sideways  at  you 
for  what  has  passed,  let  that  person  expect  to  settle  it  with  me. 
And  if,"  he  continued,  louder  still,  and  looking  defiantly  at 
Madame  Mitron's  door,  for  they  had  reached  their  own  laud- 
ing, "  if  certain  nameless  individuals,  be  they  men  or  be  they 
women,"  he  loved  the  plural  number  for  its  dignity,  "  should 
attempt  to  mislead  you  again,  let  them  understand  that  thej 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  359 

have  been  mentioned  to  the  magistrate,  and  that  there  are  such 
things  as  commissaries  of  police."  Here  Adrien  paused  in 
order  to  give  Madame  Mitron  time  to  come  forth  and  answer 
his  challenge,  but  she  remained  within,  fairly  owning  herself 
conquered. 

When  they  entered  their  own  little  room,  Adrien  stopped 
short,  and  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  :  the  floor  was 
swept,  the  place  had  been  carefully  dusted  and  set  to  rights, 
the  reseda  was  itself  again,  the  table  was  laid  out,  and  tlie 
charcoal  tire  only  needed  the  application  of  a  lighted  match. 

"  This  is  all  Madame  Moreau's  doing,"  said  Adrien,  "  and 
I,"  he  remorsefully  added,  "  I,  who  said  so  often  she  was  a  sour 
old  thing  !  Grandmother,"  he  continued  in  his  habitual  and 
cheerful  tone,  "just  light  the  tire,  if  you  please.  I  will  peel 
the  onions." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  fire  was  kindled,  the  dripping  was 
hot  in  the  pan,  and  the  onions  on  being  cast  in  filled  the  room 
with  their  merry,  hissing  sound. 

"  Grandmother,"  exclaimed  Adrien,  with  glee,  "  it  will  be, 
though  made  with  dripping,  the  best  soup  you  ever  had.  Not, 
mind  you,"  he  prudently  added,  "  that  butter  may  not  be  pre- 
ferable for  some  tastes,  but  if  one  cannot  afford  it,  what  is  the 
use  of  not  making  the  best  of  what  one  has '?  " 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  Adrien's  discourse.  "  Come 
in,"  cried  he,  thinking  it  was  Jean.  It  was  not  Jean  ;  it  was 
a  waiter  from  a  neighbouring  cook-shop,  who  deposited  a  tray 
of  covered  dishes  on  the  table. 

"  Monsieur  Adrien  ;  paid  for,"  said  he,  sententiously,  and 
he  left  the  room  ;  whilst  Adrien  and  his  grandmother  looked 
at  one  another  in  mute  surprise. 

"  Ah  !  "  suddenly  cried  Adrien,  "  I  see  now  why  Jean  left 
us.  Grandmother,  look !  here  is  a  splendid  stew  of  mutton 
and  haricots  ;  you  wished  for  one.  And  see  this  magnificent 
piece  of  veal  !  Why,  there  is  enough  for  a  week!  Oh,  where 
is  Jean  1  " 

He  flew  down-stairs,  and  searched  on  every  ona  of  the 
seven  floors,  but  neither  Jean  nor  Madame  Moreau  were  to  be 
found ;  like  the  genii  of  an  eastern  tale,  they  vanished  when 
their  favours  were  conferred. 

"  Grandmother,"  said  Adrien,  as  returning  from  his  fruit- 
less search  he  sat  down  with  his  old  relative  to  their  luxurious 
meal,  "  I  hope  you  will  never  go  out  again  with  Madame  Mi- 
tron ;  but  if  you  had  not  gone,  we  should  never  have — " 


360  SEVEN   TEARS. 

"  Had  this  good  dinner,"  put  in  the  old  lady,  whose  gour- 
mandise  was  not  quite  subdued. 

"  No,  grandmother,"  said  he,  gravely,  "  we  should  never 
have  known  how  much  kindness  towards  us  there  lay  hidden 
in  the  hearts  of  Madame  Moreau  and  Grand  Jean." 

Three  years  have  passed  away;  Adrien,  cheerful,  honest, 
industrious  as  ever,  inhabits  the  sunny  old  garret ;  but  he  has 
taken  for  his  grandmother  the  room  formerly  occupied  by 
Madame  Mitron,  who  was  disgracefully  expelled  shortly  after 
the  events  we  have  narrated.  Since  this  fortunate  occurrence, 
his  old  relative  has  given  Adrien  no  further  trouble ;  and,  as 
his  earnings  have  greatly  increased,  they  live,  as  he  says,  "  in 
luxurious  style  "  Grand  Jean  still  dwells  in  the  gloomy  old 
house.  He  and  Adrien  are  great  friends ;  he  occasionally 
banters  the  youth,  who  has  not  grown  much,  on  his  diminutive 
appearance ;  but  Adrien,  mindful  of  former  kindness,  and 
proud  of  his  dawning  moustache,  takes  it  all  very  good-tem- 
peredly.  Madame  Moreau  is  as  n^isanthropic  as  ever;  but, 
as  Adrien  says,  ''  she  is  found  out,  and  no  one  believes  her 
now."  This,  however,  excites  great  wrath  in  the  old  portress, 
who  takes  as  much  pride  in  her  fancied  scorn  and  hatred  of 
mankind,  as  others  are  apt  to  take  in  their  imaginary  philan- 
thropy and  benevolence. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  LODGER. 

Who  does  not  like  mystery  ?  The  heartless,  the  cold,  the 
unimaginative,  assuredly.  All  poetical  natures  love  it  and 
live  in  it.  Without  mystery  they  exist  not.  Life  is  dull, 
commonplace,  and  cold,  unless  they  have  it.  Give  it  to  them, 
therefore,  by  all  means.  Let  the  E-adcliffian  cup  of  romance 
— but  we  will  not  anticipate. 

Monsieur  Hyaciuthe  was  a  widower,  of  middle  age  and 
retired  habits.  He  was  pale,  thin,  and  bald,  but  these  unro- 
mantic  peculiarities  in  his  personal  appearance  did  not  prevent 
him  from  being  a  passionate  lover  of  romance  and  mystery. 
Indeed  it  is  a  vulgar  and  sad  mistake  to  suppose  that  only 
youth  and  beauty  love  romance  and  mystery.  Youth  and 
beauty  have  a  great  many  other  matters  and  objects  to  engross 
their  attention.  It  often  happens,  too,  that  they  are  cool, 
calculating,  and  sometimes  actually  inclined  to  worldliuess. 


SEVEN    YEARS.  861 

Monsieur  Ilyacinthe  was  timid  and  somewhat  cautious. 
The  world  was  so  mysterious,  the  people  in  it  were  so  full  of 
mysteries,  that  really  one  could  not  be  too  careful.  Thus 
Monsieur  Ilyacinthe  had  got  to  be  on  his  guard  with  every 
Oiie,  from  his  important  and  stately  landlord,  Monsieur 
Moreau,  down  to  his  sharp-tempered  portress,  Madame  La- 
tour. 

Owing  to  this  peculiarity  in  his  temper.  Monsieur  Hy- 
aciutlie  resided  alone  in  a  small  apartment  on  the  third-floor 
of  a  quiet  house  in  a  lonely  street.  He  kept  no  servant  :  the 
danger  of  living  alone  was  not  equal  to  the  peril  of  having  a 
perpetual  spy  and  watch  by  his  side,  or,  to  use  Monsieur  Hy- 
acintlie's  own  woi'ds,  ''  of  cherishing  a  foe  in  his  bosom.'' 
But  if  Monsieur  liyacintlie  liad  no  servant  he  had  a  servant's 
room,  which  he  prudently  under  let  furnished  when  he  could 
possibly  secure  a  lodger,  which  was  but  seldom,  owing,  perhaps, 
to  the  gins  and  traps,  in  the  way  of  preliminary  conditions, 
with  which  he  cautiously  intrenched  his  premises'  This  room 
was  in  its  usual  state  of  vacancy,  and  Monsieur  Hyacinthe, 
after  perplexing  his  mind  to  discover  for  what  peculiar  mo- 
tive his  room  did  not  let  when  other  rooms  let  all  around 
him,  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  a  fatality  in  it. 

"  There  is  a  fatality  in  it,"  he  muttered,  drawing  on  his 
night-cap  ;  and  setting  himself  comfortably  by  the  fireside,  he 
opened  his  newspaper  in  order  to  read  the  detailed  account  of 
the  last  murder :  like  many  timid  individuals,  Monsieur  Hya- 
cinthe delighted  in  the  sad  and  the  horrible. 

Monsieur  Hyacinthe  had  not  read  a  line  when  he  was  dis- 
turbed by  a  ring  at  the  door.  He  laid  down  his  paper,  and 
with  the  coolness  which  a  constant  habit  of  such  thoughts  ren- 
dered natural,  he  said  meditatively  : 

''  Thieves !  Of  course  I  shall  not  open.  H  is  too  early 
for  burglars." 

The  ring  was  impatiently  repeated. 

"A  visitor,  perhaps!"  pursued  Mon.sieur  Hyacinthe. 
"  Let  him  stay  out — it  is  too  late  to  receive  visits." 

A  third  time  the  ring  was  heard. 

Monsieur  Hyacinthe's  heart  turned  cold.  Such  a  ring  at 
nine  at  night  must  be  thieves,  visitors,  or  fire.  No  sooner  did 
the  last  fearful  suggestion  offer  itself  to  his  mind  than,  forget- 
ful of  his  night-cap  or  every  prudential  consideration.  Mon- 
sieur Hyacinthe  precipitately  rushed  to  the  door,  which  he 
flung  open. 

A  pale,  slender,  fair-haired  young  man  about  twenty,  but 
16 


362  SEVEN    YEAES. 

whose  manners  were  remarkably  cool  and  self-possessed,  was 
standing  on  tlie  landing.  He  was  showily  attired,  and  smelt 
very  strongly  of  Eau  de  Cologne  ;  the  thumb  of  his  left  hand 
was  placed  in  his  corresponding  waistcoat  pocket  ;  in  his 
other  hand  he  held  a  small  and  flexible  badine. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  he,  frowning  on  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  as 
much  as  his  very  smooth  forehead  and  eyebrows  would  allow 
him  to  frown,  "  do  you  know  that  I  have  rung  five  times  at 
your  door "? " 

"  I  protest,  sir,"  stammered  forth  Monsieur  Hyacinthe, 
"  I  only  heard  three  rings." 

"  Then,  sir,"  observed  the  stranger,  sternly  eyeing  him 
from  head  to  loot,  "  then,  sir,  it  was  extremely,  exceedingly 
impertinent  in  you  not  to  open  sooner.  You  have  a  room  to 
let — show  it  to  me." 

But  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  who  disliked  this  authoritative 
tone,  promptly  replied  that  it  was  too  late  to  see  the  room. 
"  It  is  not  the  legal  hour,  sir,"'  he  said,  with  some  dignity  ; 
"  the  legal  hour  is  from  noon  till  sunset." 

The  stranger  smoothed  his  chin,  smiled,  and  replied 
blandly : 

•'  And  so,  sir,  you  actually  think  that  a  gentleman  m  ill 
grope  up  three  pair  of  stairs,  ring  at  doors,  and  walk  down 
again,  balked  of  his  will,  because  you  please  that  it  should  be 
so.     Sir,  why  is  there  a  bill  up  ?  1  insist  on  seeing  t!ie  room." 

Monsieur  Hyacinthe  protested,  but  the  stranger  was  per- 
emptory ;  and  as  it  was  one  of  his,  Monsieur  Hyacinthe's, 
maxims,  that  a  wise  man  ought  to  submit  to  anything  in 
order  to  avoid  a  present  risk,  he  yielded  at  length,  though  not 
without  calling  on  evejy  one  to  witness  that  he  was  no  longer 
a  free  agent.  As  the  stranger  was  the  only  person  who  could 
hear  this  protest,  it  was  useless  ;  but  Monsieur  Hyacinthe's 
conscience  was  satisfied — he  had  done  everything  wliich  a 
brave  and  peaceable  man  could  do,  and  he  proceeded  to  show 
the  furnished  room  to  the  stranger,  now  fully  warned  of  his 
illegal  conduct.  The  young  man  cast  a  careless  look  around 
him,  observed  that  the  room  suited  him,  and  throwing  two 
gold  pieces  on  the  table,  bade  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  pay  him- 
self for  the  first  month's  rent,  and  keep  the  change  until 
another  month  was  up. 

"  Sir,"  said  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  "you  have  not  heard  my 
conditions.  I  am  a  quiet  man,  sir ;  this  room  is  near  my 
rooms  ;  I  like  to  be  quiet.  I  allow  no  noise,  sir,  no  loud 
talking,  never  any  music  or  singing  on  any  account.     And  I 


SEVEN    YEABS.  363 

am  particular,  sir,  very  particular.     I  feel  convinced  this  rooia 
would  never  suit  you." 

'•  1  like  it,"  said  the  stranger,  "  and  I  like  you." 

Monsieur  Hyacinthe  nevertheless  was  going  to  declare 
that,  though  his  visitor  liked  him,  the  room  was  not  suited  to 
him,  and  would  not  do  at  all,  when  the  young '  man,  not  giv- 
ing him  time  to  remonstrate,  proceeded  to  inform  him  that  he 
could  apply  to  Madame  Sebillard,  number  three,  the  next 
street,  his  present  landlady  and  abode,  for  references ;  but 
that,  as  he  hated  hypocrisy,  he  would  give  him  his  character 
himself;  and  in  order  to  do  this  with  due  comfort,  he  com- 
posedly sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"  My  name,"  he  began,  "  is  Henri  Eenaudin.  Is  it  my 
real  name  ?  That  is  of  no  consequence.  My  father  is  rich  : 
I  might  live  in  his  hotel  if  I  liked ;  but  there  is  a  step-mother 
in  the  way,  and  I  wish  to  be  free.  Still  you  will  say — Why 
come  to  a  poor  place  like  this  ?  I  have  private  reasons  for 
doing  so  ;  but  to  satisfy  you,  we  will  say  a  whim  brought  me 
hither,  or  rather  let  it  be  the  wish  of  studying  human  nature 
in  all  its  infinite  variety ;"  and  as  though  pleased  with  this 
euphonious  sentence,  M.  Eenaudin  repeated  it  several  times  in 
a  complacent  tone. 

M.  Hyacinthe  here  wanted  to  slip  in  a  remark  ;  but  the 
other  was  too  quick  for  him.  "  I  know  what  you  are  going 
to  say — Does  my  father  allow  me  such  ?  No  ;  but  I  make 
him  pay  the  same  tailor's  bills  two  or  three  times  over  :  I 
never  pay  my  tailor  myself;  it  is  really  too  shabby,"  added 
M.  Eenaudin,  with  profound  contempt  for  the  meanness  of 
such  an  act.  "  You  need  not  speak,"  he  continued,  seeing  that 
M.  Hyacinthe  was  opening  his  mouth  ;  "  I  know  what  you  are 
going  to  say — How  do  I  get  money  1  The  easiest  thing  in 
the  world  :  I  have  already  spent  three  fortunes,  of  wdiich  I 
never  touched  a  sou.  My  mother's  fortune  was  the  first. 
Oh,  no  !  now  I  think  of  it,  it  was  my  cousin's  five  hundred 
thousand  francs  that  went  first.  Ah  !  they  are  all  gone. 
Then  came  my  mother's  property — gone  too  ;  and  my  old 
uncle's  fortune  is  going  now.  He  is  still  alive,  but  he  has 
made  a  will  in  my  favour,  so  that  I  live  on  my  future  expec- 
tations. You  seem  astonished  ;  it  is  very  easy  :  I  can  put 
you  in  the  way  :  borrow  money  at  the  rate  of  two  or  three 
hundred  per  cent.,  spend  it,  give  parties,  and  so  forth ;  you 
will  find  that  a  moderate  fortune  does  not  last  much  more 
than  a  year.  But  you  look  economical :  well,  then,  let  us 
say  eighteen  months,  if  you  wish  to  see  old  Isaac." 


364  SEVEN    YEARb. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  precipitately  interrupted  M.  Hyacin  the  ; 
"  you  were  speaking  about  yuur  character  'i  " 

"  You  are  welcome  to  it.  In  the  first  place,  I  am  a  dread- 
ful gambler  and  a  fearful  spendthrift.  I  delight  in  throwing 
money  out  of  the  windows,  and  seeing  the  people  rush  and 
fight  foi-  it.  Does  this  window  look  out  on  the  street  1  No  : 
ah,  sorry  for  it.  Never  mind,  we  shall  find  an  opportunity. 
I  see  you  are  greatly  shocked ;  can't  help  it,  my  dear  sir — 
family  failing — my  mother  was  a  charming  woman,  but  very 
extravagant,  yet  greatly  admired  by  the  other  sex ;  and,  to 
say  the  truth,  I  believe  that  I  have  also  inherited  this  peculiari- 
ty— that  is  to  say,  reversed  ;  but  I  hate  vanity,  so  we  will 
'  drop  the  subject.  Well,  I  think  you  have  my  character  cor- 
rectly now.  Stop,  I  w^as  forgetting  one  very  remarkable  pe- 
culiarity :  I  am  dreadfully  violent,  a  famous  duellist,  and 
when  excited,  would  no  more  mind  throwing  you  out  of  the 
window  than  I  would  the  smoking  of  a  cigar  ;  "  and  as  an  apt 
illustration  of  this  happy  comparison,  M.  lienaudin  drew  a 
cigar  from  his  cigar-case,  and  lighting  it  from  the  candle  held 
by  M.  Hyacinthe,  began  smoking  it  with  great  composure. 

"  Sir,"  ejaculated  the  alarmed  M.  Hyacinthe,  endeavouring 
to  smile,  "  this  is  only  some  pleasant  joke  of  yours.  Remem- 
ber the  window  is  very  high  ;  you  would  not  have  the  heai't 
to  throw  a  poor  man  from  a  third  floor  1  " 

But  M.  Renaudin  said  he  had  the  heart  to  do  anything ; 
should  feel  extremely  sorry  when  it  was  all  over,  but  could 
not  help  it ;  had  therefore  thought  it  best  to  mention  this 
weakness,  as  it  would  be  more  pleasant  to  both  parties  if  noth- 
ing of  the  kind  occurred.  "  And  now,"  he  added,  "  that  every- 
thing is  explained,  1  think  that,  as  I  feel  rather  sleepy,  you 
*  may  leave  me." 

"  1  cannot  allow  that,"  uneasily  exclaimed  Monsieur  Hy- 
aeinthe  ;  "  I  must  give  notice  to  the  police." 

"  I  scorn  the  police,"  answered  Renaudin,  with  deep  con- 
tempt. 

"  Sir,"  indignantly  exclaimed  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  who 
was  gradually  edging  towards  the  door,  "  you  fail  in  the  re- 
spect due  to  the  constituted  authorities  :  your  language  is  very 
illegal." 

"  I  delight  in  everything  illegal,"  was  Renaudin's  profane 
reply. 

"Then,  sir,"  resolutely  observed  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  now 
on  the  landing,  "  I  shall  alarm  the  house." 

"  Do,"  answered  Monsieur  Renaudin  ;  "  thei-e  will  be  noise. 


SEVEN  TEAES.  365 

fighting,  smashing  of  window-panes,  &c., — things  in  which  1 
rejoice — another  trait  in  my  character.  But  if  you  liave  a 
bone  or  two  broken  in  the  afl'ray,  do  not  say  you  received  no 
wai'ning." 

This  was  uttered  with  such  suavity  of  manner,  and  the 
speaker  had  such  a  fair,  meelc  foce,  of  which  the  most  promi- 
nent features  were  large  eyes  of  a  pale  blue,  a  flit  nose,  and  a 
retreating  chin,  that  he  did  not  seem  the  most  likely  indi- 
vidual to  carry  his  threat  into  execution  ;  but  ]\Ionsieur  Hy- 
acinthe,  who  knew  what  horrible  mysteries  often  lay  hid  under 
the  fairest  aspect,  and  who  never  trusted  to  personal  appear- 
ances when  his  safety  was  at  stake,  submitted,  though  not 
without  a  protest,  and  ended  by  putting  the  two  Napoleons 
in  his  pocket,  and  leaving  Monsieur  Renaudin  master  of  the 
field  of  battle.  Fear  was  not  his  only  reason  f  jr  acting  thus  : 
being  a  considerate  man,  he  did  not  like  to  disturb  a  quiet 
house.  Besides,  he  was  not  sorry  to  let  his  room  to  an  indi- 
vidual who  could  afford  to  throw  money  out  of  the  window  ; 
for  though  it  is  very  well  to  discounti-nance  extravagant  peo- 
ple, every  one  knows  that  it  is  profitable  to  deal  with  them  in 
the  long  run.  There  might  be,  too,  a  vague  mysterious  pleas- 
ure for  Monsieur  Hyacintlie  in  having  this  mysterious  indi- 
vidual under  the  same  roof  with  himself;  a  pleasure  the  more 
exquisite,  that  his  tenant's  room  adjoined  that  in  which  he 
slept,  and  that  when  he.  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  had  retired  to 
bed,  he  could  distinctly  hear  Monsieur  Kenaudin  sneeze  three 
times.  Strange  thoughts  came  to  Monsieur  Hyacinthe, — was 
this  sneezing  a  signal,  who  knew,  who  could  tell  ?  Dreams  of 
Renaudin  breaking  open  his  door,  and  approaching  liis  bed- 
side with  a  scowl,  soothed  Monsieur  Ilyacinthe's  slumbers 
that  night. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  mysterious  lodger  went  out. 
As  soon  as  he  was  down  the  staircase.  Monsieur  Hyacinthe, 
who  had  a  double  key,  entered  his  room,  and  with  a  sigh  of 
relief  found  that  Monsieur  Renaudin  had  carried  away  noth- 
ing ;  which  was  the  less  surprising  that,  save  an  old  candle- 
stick and  a  pair  of  snuffers,  there  was  nothing  portable  in  the 
room. 

This  important  flict  being  ascertained,  INIonsieur  Hyacinthe 
hastened  to  call  on  Madame  Sehillard. 

He  found  a  busy,  talkative  lady,  whose  thoughts  did  not 
seem  to  go  beyond  the  concerns  of  the  furnished  house  of 
which  she  called  herself  mistress.  At  first  she  completely 
misunderstood  his  purpose,  and  insisted   on  letting  him  her 


366  SEVEN   YEARS. 

first-floor  for  the  moderate  sum  of  three  hundred  francs  a 
month.  "  A  bargain,  I  assure  you,"  she  said,  "  a  dead  bar- 
gain." 

"  Madame,  you  do  not  understand — " 

"  Oh,  yes  1  do — you  want  that  little  back  room  with  the 
chintz  sofii.  Well,  then,  you  shall  have  it.  I  had  promised 
it  to  the  English  lord ;  but  you  shall  have  it." 

"  Madame,  yon  do  not  understand  me,"  austerely  resumed 
Monsieur  Hyacinthe ;  "  I  came  at  this  early  hour  to  inquire 
into  the  character  of  a  mysterious  individual,  who  left  you 
vnider  strange  and  sudden  circumstances  yesterday  evening. 
He  called  himself  to  me  Renaudin  ;  his  real  name  you  per- 
haps know." 

Madame  Sebillard's  busy  face  took  a  touch  of  melancholy. 

"  It  was  a  great  pity,"  she  said,  "  but  what  could  I  do  ? 
I  liked  him  very  much,  the  dearest,  gentlest,  meekest  lamb  I 
ever  had,  but  what  could  I  do  1  I  put  it  to  you  sir  ;  if  I  did 
not  take  Renaudin's  room  I  could  not  let  my  second-floor. 
He  bore  the  dismissal  with  angelic  sweetness,  quite  entered 
into  my  feelings,  and  went  to  you,  1  suppose." 

"  Madame,  there  is  something  in  all  this,"  suspiciously 
said  Monsieur  Hyacinthe.  "  You  confess  you  dismissed  this 
singular  being  from  your  house.  What  had  he  done?  who, 
what  is  he  1  " 

"  The  sweetest-tempered  lodger  I  ever  had,  and  the  quiet- 
est," replied  Madame  Sebillard  ;  "  I  should  have  been  delight- 
ed to  keep  him,  if  I  could  have  let  my  second-floor  without 
his  room,  but  I  could  not.  It  was  sad,  very.  As  to  what  he 
does  to  earn  a  living,  you  had  better  ask  him — I  always  took 
him  to  be  an  employe,  or  something  of  the  sort." 

This  shallow  attempt  to  impose  on  his  credulity,  Monsieur 
Hyacinthe  was  going  to  receive  with  an  indignant  remon- 
strance, when  the  appearance  of  a  yellow-haired  English 
family,  in  search  of  an  apartment,  made  Madame  Sebillard 
deaf  and  blind,  or  rather  took  and  transferred  her  senses  from 
him  to  her  future  lodgers. 

Monsieur  Hyacinthe  withdrew,  profoundly  disgusted  with 
so  much  duplicity,  and  more  than  ever  convinced  of  tne 
universal  tendency  which  every  individual  had  to  cheat  and 
deceive  him.  As  he  entered  the  house  in  which  he  resided, 
meditating  how  all  this  would  end,  Madame  Latour,  the  por- 
tress, screamed  shrilly  from  her  lodge  : 

"  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  will  you  please  to  give  me  ten  sous 
for  that   letter  1 — give  it  to  him,  Minna, — and  another  time, 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  367 

Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  T  shall  be  obliged  to  you  if  yon  will 
kindly  tell  me  when  you  take  in  lodgers  at  nine  at  night." 

Madame  Latour's  niece,  Minna,  a  stout,  red-haired  girl, 
handed  the  letter  to  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  who  hastily  put  it 
back  on  perceiving  that  it  was  directed  to  Monsieur  Renaudin. 

"  With  anything  belonging  to  that  man,"  he  said,  solemn- 
ly, "  I  will  have  nothing  to  do.  There  may  be  gunpowder  in 
that  letter,  for  all  I  know." 

"  Gunpowder  !  "  said  Madame  Latour,  coming  forward, 
"  smell  it,  Minna." 

Minna  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  declared  the  letter  was 
scented. 

"  Do  not  trust  it !  "  ejaculated  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  "  and 
do  not  trust  the  man  to  whom  it  is  directed." 

"  I  have  a  great  mind  to  put  a  match  to  it,"  said  Madame 
Latour,  who  had  a  Baconian  turn  for  experiments. 

"  The  risk  be  on  your  own  head,"  solemnly  said  Monsieur 
Hyacinthe,  ''  but  mark  my  words,  IMudame  Latour,  distrust 
thai  man — and  mind  your  niece,"  he  added,  darting  a  look  at 
Miiiua,  who  heard  him  with  open  mouth  and  eyes. 

"  Mind  my  niece  !  "  echoed  Madame  Latour. 

"  Ay,  Madame  Latour,  mind  her  !  "  And  Monsieur  Hya- 
cinehe  went  up-stairs,  leaving  Madame  Latour  much  excited. 

Minna  was  her  niece,  the  daughter  of  her  brother  in  the 
couritry,  confided  to  her  especial  care,  and  Madame  Latour 
was  of  opinion  that  Minna  required  strict  watching  and  sound 
exhortation  Of  the  latter  she  now  received  a  reasonable 
dose,  with  the  concluding  and  irresistible  argument  of  a  slap 
on  the  face,  which  Madame  Latour  held  essential  to  correct 
female  dir'^ir''.'ne,  and  which,  as  a  dutiful  and  affectionate  aunt, 
she  would  not  on  any  account  have  omitted. 

Not  satisfied  with  warning  every  one  against  his  lodger, 
Monsieur  Hyacinthe  kept  strict  watch  on  his  motions,  so  as 
to  leave  him  the  scantiest  opportunities  of  effecting  any  mischief. 
But  though  his  vigilance  was  most  persevering,  he  could  dis- 
cover nothing  reprehensiljle  in  the  conduct  of  Monsieur  Re- 
naudin, and  for  his  opinion  of  that  singular  individual  he  was 
obliged  to  rely  a  good  deal  on  Monsieur  Renaudin  himself. 
This  strange  beins;  went  out  early  in  the  morning  and  came 
home  late  at  night,  just  like  the  most  commonplace  biped. 
Occasionally,  indeed,  he  hinted  in  a  dark  and  gloomy  tone  at 
certain  deeds  in  which  he  had  been  engaged  during  the  day ; 
but  though  Monsieur  Hyacinthe's  hair  "  stood  on  end  to 
hear  him,"  as  he  elegantly  expressed  it,  this  was  all  he  could 


368  sp:ven  years. 

learn,  and  every  one  agreed  that  the  information  was  exceed 
ingly  vague. 

There  was,  however,  a  kind  of  fearful  charm  in  Eenaudin's 
conversation  for  the  jjeaceful  Hyacinthe  ;  for  though,  of  course, 
it  was  very  shocking  to  hear  his  guest  speak  with  unparallel- 
ed and  revolting  coldness  of  the  innocent  hearts  he  had  broken 
through  mere  wantonness,  and  of  the  foes  wliom  he  had  laid 
in  mortal  combat  at  his  feet — without  speaking  of  all  the 
tailor's  bills  whicli  he  had  never  paid — every  one  knows  that 
those  are  subjects  of  the  most  thrilling  interest,  and  which  for 
a  long  time  formed  the  very  staple  of  modern  fiction. 

No  wonder,  therefore,  that  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  being  fond 
of  the  dark  and  the  dismal,  was  fliscinated  by  the  gloomy  dis- 
course of  Renaudin.  Nor  was  he  the  only  person  on  whom 
this  mysterious  individual  exercised  an  influence.  Every  one 
in  the  house,  from  Monsieur  Moreau  the  landlord,  who  lived 
on  the  first-floor,  to  Madame  Latour  in  her  lodge,  and  the 
little  tailor  in  his  garret,  declaimed  there  was  something  incom- 
prehensible about  that  man. 

Monsieur  Moreau,  who,  having  once  been  a  deputy,  and 
voted  against  the  freedom  of  the  press,  thought  himself  a 
marked  man,  asserted  that  it  would  be  prudent  to  turn  him 
out  of  the  house  at  once,  as  he  was  probably  the  spy  of  a 
gang  of  thieves  or  conspirators,  both  of  which  characters  were 
in  his  opinion  identical ;  Madame  Latour  called  him  a  liber- 
tine and  mauvais  sujet,  and  strictly  forbade  her  niece  to  cast 
even  a  look  upon  him  ;  the  old  tailor  gave  a  very  diffuse 
opinion,  in  which  there  was  something  about  the  degeneracy 
of  human  nature,  and  the  cut  of  ]\Ionsieur  Renaudin's  coat, 
which  was  not,  it  seems,  at  all  orthodox.  Monsieur  Hya- 
cinthe, who  knew  most  on  the  su1)ject,  said  least ;  "  for,"  as 
he  sententiously  observed,  "  walls  had  ears."  Occasionally, 
however,  he  ventured  to  observe,  that  there  was  something 
fetal  about  his  lodger's  look — that  he  was,  like  Napoleon,  a 
child  of  destiny,  &c. — with  which  observations  every  one 
agreed,  as  being  remarkably  applicable  to  Monsieur  Renaudin. 

But  such,  however,  was  the  exemplary  conduct  of  this 
strange  individual,  so  regularly  did  he  pay  his  rent,  and  so 
nearly  did  he,  upon  the  Avhole,  behave  like  other  people,  that 
every  one  began  to  think  him  a  commonplace  fellow,  and 
some  persons  went  so  far  as  to  complain  that  they  had  been 
taken  in.  But  events  showed  that  their  murmurs  had  been 
premature,  and  Renaudin  soon  let  them  see  what  he  could  do. 

Madame  Latour  rose  one  morning,  unwarned  by  pi'esenti 


SEVEN    YEARS.  369 

ments  of  evil  against  the  approaching  calamity.  She  called 
Minna,  who  slept  in  the  same  room,  and  on  not  iicaring  Minna 
answer,  she  thought  nothing,  save  that  jNiinna  was  o\^crs!eep 
ing  herself.  She  took  a  jug  of  cold  water,  wliich  she  htld  a 
sovereign  remedy  against  sleepiness,  opened  the  curtains,  and 
prepared  to  let  a  few  warning  drops  fall  on  Minna's  fair  fore- 
head ;  hut,  amazement !  the  bed  was  empty  and  cold, — Minna 
was  flown. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  The  young  girl's 
clothes  and  little  valuables  were  gone,  as  well  as  her  person. 
Madame  Latour's  carefully-guarded  and  admonished  niece  had 
run  away.  But  with  whom  ?  Who  could  have  thus  fasci- 
nated her  ?  Some  one  in  the  house,  for  INIinna  never  went  out. 
Was  it  Monsieur  Moreau  1  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  or  the  old 
tailor  1  Impossible  !  A  flash  of  light  crossed  Madame  La- 
tour's  mind, — it  was  Renaudin  ! 

True,  proof  was  wanting,  but  was  tame,  commonplace 
proof  ever  so  potent  as  suspicion  ?  Madame  Latour's  suspi- 
cion proved  to  be  a  magnifying-glass  of  first-rate  power,  for 
she  alarmed  the  house,  called  landlord  and  lodgers  together, 
and  vowed  to  be  revenged  on  the  artful  Renaudin,  should  he 
presume  to  show  his  face  again  in  the  house,  which  every  one 
agreed  to  be  extremely  unlikely. 

But  Renaudin  showed  them  that  he  was  capable  of  any- 
thing, for  he  came  home  at  his  usual  hour.  Madame  Latour 
began  the  attack  by  asking  him  politely — and  her  politeness, 
being  very  uncommon,  always  foreboded  some  deep  insult — 
what  he  had  done  with  her  niece,  Minna  ? 

"  Ay,  sir,"  she  continued,  still  sweet  and  smiling,  "  I  should 
like  to  know — just  out  of  curiosity — what  you  have  done  with 
her." 

Monsieur  Renaudin  must  have  been  a  consummate  actor, 
for  his  face  expressed  surprise  apparently  so  unfeigned,  that 
Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  who  was  listening  and  looking  over  the 
banisters,  was  almost  staggered  in  his  belief  of  Renaudin's 
guilt. 

"  What  I  have  done  with  your  niece,"  at  length  said  the 
yomig  man,  "  why,  truly,  nothing,  Madame." 

"  I  suppose,  sir,"  sharply  said  Madame  Latour,  "  I  sup- 
pose, sir,  YOU  think  I  am  blind,  and  that  I  did  not  notice  the 
looks,  sir, — mind,  the  looks  my  niece  cast  upon  you  1" 

Monsieur  Renaudin  smiled  and  stroked  his  chin. 

"  I  confess  you  have  me  there,"  he  said,  blandly  ;  "  why  yes, 
she  did  look  at  me.    She  did,  and  I  will  not  deny  but  she  may 

16* 


370  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

have  felt  much,  but  I  gave  her  no  encouragement.  On  my 
honour,  I  did  not." 

"  Sir,  what  do  you  mean  1  "  fiercely  asked  Madame  La- 
tour.  "  Look  at  you  !  my  niece  look  at  you,  a  girl  reared  by 
me  !  Say  that  yovi  stared  at  her,  sir,  in  a  shameful,  shameless 
way,  but  do  not.  presume  to  assert  that  she  cast  a  glance  at 
you.'; 

This  sudden  and  extraordinary  contradiction  struck  Ee- 
naudin  dumb.  He  stared  at  Madame  Latour  as  if  he  thought 
that  lady  mad,  and  ^ntil  she  asked  him  what  he  meant  by  it, 
without  giving  him  time  to  reply,  she  overwhelmed  him  with 
abuse.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  opened  his  lips  to  answer  her 
invectives  by  a  word  of  "self  defence  ;  for  when  she  at  length 
paused,  out  of  breath,  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  bending  over  the 
banisters,  said  meekly  : 

"  Well,  I  do  think,  sir,  that  you  ought  to  give  up  this 
young  girl.     I  do  think  you  ought." 

"  I  think  so  too,"  said  Monsieur  Moreau,  appearing  at  the 
head  of  the  staircase,  "  I  am  the  landlord  of  this  house,  and  it 
is  my  duty  to  insist  on  the  deluded  Minna  being  given  up  to 
her  afflicted  aunt." 

"  And  I  say  it  is  a  shame  Monsieur  should  talk  as  he  has 
talked  of  a  poor  girl,  who  has  given  up  everything  for  his 
sake,"  said  the  little  tailor,  who  was  sitting  in  the  lodge. 

"  I  protest  against  the  disappearance  of  this  little  red- 
haired  girl  being  laid  at  my  door,"  indignantly  exclaimed  Re- 
naudin.  "  It  is  a  slander  on  my  good  taste  to  hint  at  it.  A 
slander  which  I  shall  resent,"  he  added,  looking  around  him 
with  a  fierceness  which  produced  immediate,  but  brief,  silence  ; 
for  Madame  Latour,  being  now  exhausted,  became  hysterical, 
and  declared  that  her  darling  Minna  being  gone,  she  had  noth- 
ing to  "live  for  ;  she  partly  revived,  however,  when  her  friends 
bade  her  rouse  herself  for  the  sake  of  her  lodgers ;  and  she 
even  exerted  herself  so  much  as  to  promise  Monsieur  Renau- 
din,  who  was  now  going  up  to  his  room,  that  she  would  soon 
be  revenged  upon  him, 

"  Go  up,  sir,"  she  said,  loftily,  "  go  up.  You  shall  suffer 
for  this  yet." 

And  faithfully,  indeed,  did  she  keep  her  word.  During  a 
whole  week  her  foe  could  neither  leave  nor  enter  the  house 
without  hearing  himself  reproached  by  Madame  Latour  with 
the  abduction  of  her  niece.  But  hatred  has  quick  instincts ; 
and  the  portress  soon  perceived  that  the  graceless  Renaudin 
was  rather  flattered  at  being  thus  reminded  of  the  impression 


SEVEN   YEARS.  371 

he  had  produced  on  the  too-susceptible  heart  of  the  fliir  Min- 
na :  she  accordingly  sought  for  a  surer  method  of  inflicting  a 
wound,  and  soon  found  a  very  effectual  one,  Avhich  she  prac- 
tised thrice  with  great  success.  Ihis  was  to  sleep  so  soundly 
at  night,  that  she  never  heard  her  enemy's  knock  at  the  door, 
and  that,  consequently,  Monsieur  Renaudin  had  to  spend  the 
night  in  the  open  air,  which,  as  the  portrefs  managed  to  be 
particularly  drowsy  in  rainy  weather,  was  not  always  very 
pleasant.  Of  course  when  he  came  in  in  the  morning,  Mon- 
sieur Renaudin  raved  at  Madame  Latotir  in  an  awful  manner, 
and  uttered  such  fearful  threats  of  vengeance,  that  the 
alarmed  Monsieur  Ilyacinthe  assured  her  the  whole  affair 
would  end  in  something  dreadful.  But  the  portress  was  a 
dauntless  woman  ;  she  continued  to  brave  the  anger  of  her 
foe  in  the  most  fearless  manner,  and  seemingly  without  suffer- 
ing in  consequence. 

Punishment,  indeed,  seemed  in  this  case  to  fall  on  the  head 
of  the  guilty  individual  ;  for  such  was  the  persecution  Mon- 
sieur Renaudin  sustained  on  the  subject  of  Minna,  that  the 
unhappy  gentleman  declared,  .in  a  tone  of  despair,  he  would 
leave  the  house  unless  it  ceased.  From  morninjj  till  night, 
indeed,  he  heard  of  nothing  but  Minna.  The  female  lodgers 
looked  upon  him  with  evident  horror  ;  the  men  remonstrated 
with  him  ;  and  even  the  timid  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  used  the 
most  persuasive  arguments  in  order  to  induce  him  to  give  up 
Minna. 

"  Sir  !  "  exclaimed  Monsieur  Renaudin,  rolling  his  blue 
eyes  in  a  portentous  manner,  "  if  I  hear  the  name  of  Minna 
again,  I  shall  do  something  desperate  !  " 

As  it  did  not  escape  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  that  his  lodger, 
whilst  speaking  thus,  grasped  a  small  pocket-pistol  which  was 
lying  on  the  table,  he  hastened  to  retreat ;  but  when  he  had 
left  the  room,  he  said  in  a  loud  tone,  though  perhaps  not  quite 
loud  enough  to  be  heard,  "  hard-hearted  wretch  !  " 

But  the  circumstance  of  -the  pistol,  which  he  had  never 
seen  before,  nevertheless  dwelt  in  his  mind.  What  did  his 
lodger  want  it  for  ?  A  duel  or  a  suicide  ?  Monsieur  Hya 
einthe  inclined  rather  towards  the  latter  supposition.  It 
seemed  exceedingly  likel'y  that  something  fatal  had  befallen 
the  unhappy  Minna,  and  in  such  a  case  it  was  only  natural 
that  the  guilty  Renaudin's  mind  should  be  burdened  with  re- 
morse ;  and  every  one  knows  tliat,  in  such  dark  and  myste- 
rious characters,  rt^morsc  leads  to  tlie  most  dreadful  extremi- 
ties.   The  more  he  thought  on  the  subject,  the  more  Monsieur 


372  SEVEN   TEAES. 

Hyacinthe  became  convinced  that  it  was  his  lodger's  intention 
to  commit  some  rash  act ;  and  remembering,  with  the  most 
disinterested  humanity,  that  he  owed  him  nearly  two  months' 
rent,  he  resolved  to  save  him  in  spite  of  himself.     He  imine- 
diately  communicated  his  suspicions  to  the  portress  and  Mon- 
sieur Moreau,  who  both  appeared  much  startled  on  hearing  of 
the  pistol.     The  landlord  especially  seemed  thrown  into  an 
unusual  state  of  agitation.     He  treated  the  idea  of  a  suicide 
with  mysterious  contempt,  and  darkly  asked  Monsieur  Hya- 
cinthe, if  he  had  never  heard  of  such  things  as  political  assas- 
sination, and  pistol  shots  being  fired  at  marked  men  1     After 
which  he  made  some  unintelligible  allusion  to  a  warning  let- 
ter, but  ended  by  declaring  that  the  pistol  should  be  secured 
by  all  means  ;  and  that,  in  order  to  prevent  him  from  com- 
mitting mischief,  Renaudin  should  be  locked  up  in  his  room. 
But  who  was  to  beard  the  lion  in  his  den  ?     The  portress  and 
Monsieur  Moreau  agreed  that  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  was  the 
most  fit  person  to  be  intrusted  with  such  a  task.    This  worthy 
individual,  however,  who  entertained  a  most  considerate  re- 
gard for  his  personal  safety,  declared  it  would  be  as  much  as 
his  life  was  worth  to  undertake  such  an  office,  as  he  knew  Re- 
naudin would   fight  like  a  tiger ;    but   he  hinted  something 
about  Monsieur  Moreau's  great  moral  courage,  and  Madame 
Latour  being  safe  on  account  of  her  sex  ;    upon  which  the 
landlord  eyed  Ijim  askance,  muttering  something  about  hidden 
accomplices,  whilst  the  portress  sharply  asked  "  if  Monsieur 
Hyacinthe  wanted  to  get  rid  of  her  that  way  1  "     It  was  at 
length  agreed  that  the  deed  should  be  effected  by  cunning. 
At  dead  of  night,  therefore,  when  every  one  in  the  house  was 
safely  in  bed  and  fast  asleep,  Madame  Latour  raised  up  an 
alarm  of  fire  in  most  unearthly  accents.     The  lodgers,  being 
all  warned,  took  no  notice  of  the  fact,  with  the  exception  of 
the  luckless  Renaudin,  who  flew  out  of  his  room,  and  rushed 
down  stairs  as  pale  and  breathless  as  though  it  would  not  have 
been  as  sure  a  method  of  committing  suicide  to  remain  in  bed 
whilst   the  house  was  on  fire  as  any  other  which  he  might 
adopt.    Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  who  was  lying  in  ambush  on  the 
landing,  immediately  darted  into  the  room,  pounced  upon  the 
pistol,  which  was  still  lying  on  the  table,  caught  up  a  box  of 
razors,  and  hurried  off  with  his  spoil  to  his  own  apartment. 
On  discoverinnf  that  the  alarm  was  a  false  one,  IMonsieur  Re- 
uaudin,  who  only  saw  in  this  another  method  taken  by  his 
enemy  the  portress  to  annoy  him,  gave  her  a  ferocious  look, 
and  walked  up  to  his  room.     His  ill-humour  was  too  great  to 


SEVEN  YEAES.  873 

enable  him  to  perceive  his  loss,  and  it  lucklessly  made  hire 
neglect  to  lock  his  door. 

But  the  next  morning  Monsieur  Renaudin  missed  his 
razors,  then  liis  pistol,  and  ended  by  discovering  that  he  was 
locked  up.  His  cries  soon  brought  Monsieur  ITyacinthe  to 
his  door.  The  worthy  gentleman  then  explained  to  his  lodger 
througli  the  key-hole  that  he  was  to  remain  a  prisoner  until 
he  could  prove  that  he  no  longer  entertained  hostile  designs 
against  his  own  person,  and  might  be  trusted  with  a  debt. 
He  added,  however,  that  if  IMonsieur  Renaudin  would  sol- 
emnly promise  not  to  throw  himself  into  the  Seine,  nor  to 
leap  down  from  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame,  nor  to  destroy 
himself  in  any  manner  whatsoever ;  and  if  he  would  pay 
down  to  him,  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  the  two  months'  rent 
which  he  owed  him,  and  another  month's  rent  to  which  he 
was  entitled,  not  having  received  warning,  he  would  see  what 
he  could  do  in  order  to  free  him  from  his  bondase  in  two  or 
three  ojiys'  time.  These  conditions  were,  howerer,  indignantly 
rejected  by  Monsieur  Renaudin,  who  vowed  that  he  would 
have  justice  if  there  was  law  in  the  land,  and  appealed  to  the 
police  for  protection.  But  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  reminded 
him  that,  as  he  delighted  in  everything  illegal,  and  scorned  the 
police,  he  had  no  right  to  complain ;  and  thus  ended  the  con- 
ference. 

After  walking  about  his  room  for  some  time  in  a  state  of 
great  indignation.  Monsieur  Renaudin  gradually  cooled  down, 
and  requested  to  speak  to  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  and  Monsieur 
Moreau.  When  they  were  both  on  the  landing,  he  again  de- 
manded an  explanation  of  their  conduct.  Monsieur  Hyacinthe 
replied  by  saying  that  a  pistol  had  been  found  in  his  room, 
and  by  hinting  something  about  the  unhappy  Minna. 

"  Minna  again  !  "  groaned  the  captive  in  a  tone  of  despair ; 
adding,  with  reckless  calmness  :  "  How  long  do  you  mean  to 
keep  me  a  prisoner,  and  when  will  you  give  me  anything  to 
eat  ?  " 

Monsieur  Hyacinthe  pretended  not  to  hear  this  last  ques- 
tion ;  and  after  a  good  deal  of  hesitation,  Monsieur  Moreau 
said  somctliing  about  feeding  one's  enemies,  and  promised  to 
send  up  Monsieur  Renaudin  his  breakfist.  This  meal,  how- 
ever, only  consisted  of  a  cup  of  cold  coffee,  with  a  very  scanty 
supply  of  bread  ;  but  such  as  it  was,  Monsieur  Mori'au  took 
the  precaution  of  not  delivering  it  to  the  captive  without  pre- 
viously exacting  from  him  a  solemn  promise  of  not  attempt- 
ing to  escape  for  the  whole  of  that  day.     Monsieur  Renaudin, 


374  SEVEN   TEARS. 

who  was  hungry,  would  have  promised  anythhig,  and 
readily  complied  with  this  condition ;  the  more  so,  as  Mon 
sieur  Moreau  artfully  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was 
going  to  get  a  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette.  When  he  saw  the 
deceit  which  had  been  practised  upon  him,  he  gave  vent  to  his 
irritated  feelings  in  bitter  and  gloomy  language  "  about 
blighted  hopes,  and  people  being  driven  to  desperate  deeds." 
Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  who  was  listening  on  the  landing,  shud- 
dered as  he  remembered  that  the  window  was  not  fastened  ; 
but  Renaudin  was  probably  too  much  bent  on  vengeance  to 
think  of  self-destruction,  for  he  quietly  ate  his  bread,  drank 
his  coffee,  and  when  a  few  hours  had  passed  away,  asked  if 
dinner  was  ever  going  to  come  up,  or  if  they  meant  to  starve 
him.  In  answer  to  this  question,  a  dish  of  onion  soup,  with 
cold  mutton  and  bread,  soon  made  their  appearance  ;  but  on 
beholding  this  sorry  fare.  Monsieur  Renaudin  became  so  in- 
dignant, that  he  threatened  to  break  all  the  window  panes  in 
his  room.  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,  alarmed  by  this  menace, 
pacified  him  by  a  dubious  promise  of  mending  his  bill  of  fare 
the  next  day.  As  he  was  meditating,  however,  on  the  best 
means  of  eluding  this  engagement,  an  event  occurred,  which 
relieved  him  from  his  embarrassment. 

News  were  received  of  Minna,  who  had  now  been  gone 
more  than  a  week.  The  father  of  the  fugitive  wrote  to  apol- 
ogise for  the  conduct  of  his  daughter,  who,  unable  to  bear  a 
longer  absence  from  home,  had  returned  to  the  bosom  of  her 
family.  Madame  Latour  was  greatly  incensed  by  this  ex- 
planation of  the  guilty  Minna's  conduct ;  and  though  the  in- 
nocence of  Renaudin  was  now  clearly  proved,  she  threw  the 
whole  blame  upon  him.  Every  one,  indeed,  felt  disappointed 
at  this  commonplace  conclusion,  and,  like  the  portress,  found 
fault  with  the  luckless  Renaudin.  They  had  got  into  the  habit 
of  associatins;  his  name  with  that  of  Minna — no  longer  the 
unhappy  ;  they  had  looked  upon  him  with  suspicion  and  hor- 
ror ;  he  had  been  for  them  that  favourite  theatrical  character 
— the  traitor  of  the  melo-drama  ;  and  lo  !  he  now  turned  out 
to  be  a  false  traitor  !  In  short.  Monsieur  Renaudin  was  now 
despised  for  not  having  committed  the  act  which  had  drawn, 
down  persecution  upon  him.  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  himself, 
who,  when  pleading  the  cause  of  Minna,  had  termed  his  lodger 
"  a  hard-hearted  wretch  !  "  no  sooner  found  him  to  be  inno- 
cent, than  he  contemptuously  called  him  "  a  mean  and  spirit- 
less fellow  !  "  Monsieur  Moreau  was  the  only  individual  who 
showed  no  disappointment  or  surprise.    "  He  knew  all  along," 


SEVEN   YEARS.  375 

he  observed,   "  that    Minna  had  nothing  to  do  with  Ttenau- 
din's  presence  in  the  house."     And  he  dropped  such  myste- 
rious  hints  on  the  subject,  that  every  one  shrewdly  concluded 
there  must  be  something  in  it.     On  being  informed  by  Mon- 
sieur Hyacinthe  of  the  turn  the  affair  had  taken,  Monsieur 
Renaudin  naturally  enough  expected  to  be  released  from  his 
captivity  ;  but  tliough  his  landlord  told  him  that  he  was  free, 
it  struck  Monsieur  Renaudin  that  there  was  something  very 
peculiar  in  his  manner  as  he  did  so. ,  Monsieur  Hyacinthe's 
first  act,  when  this  explanation  was  over,  was  to  request  his 
lodger  to  pay  him  the  two  mo-ntlis'  rent,  which  happened  to 
be  due  that  very  same  day.     Monsieur  Renaudin  threw  him 
the  money  with  silent  scorn ;  but  without  heeding  this,  his 
landlord  examined  each  piece  of  silver  with  minute  attention, 
counted  and  recounted  the  sum,  and  at  length,  apparently  sat- 
isfied that  it  was  right,  put  it  into  his  pocket.     When  this 
was  over,  he  produced  a  small  packet  of  papers,  which  he  laid 
on  the  table  before  his  lodger.     Monsieur  Renaudin  saw  that 
the  papers  were  the  bills  of  different  tradesmen,  concerning 
heavy  debts  contracted  towards  them  by  a  Monsieur  de  St. 
Maur.     After  eyeing  them  one  by  one  with  a  bewildered  look, 
he  asked  an  explanation  of  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  ;  but  his  land- 
lord  affected   not   to   understand    him.      "  Surely    Monsieur 
needed   no    explanation ;    tradespeople  had  come  to  inquire 
whether    Monsieur   de   St.   Maur  lived    in  the   house ;    and 
though  Monsieur  had  changed  his  name,  they  gave  such  an 
accurate  description  of  his  person,  that  Madame  Latour  knew 
it  must  be  he.     He  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  whole  affair ; 
and  if  the  next  time  Monsieur  went  out  he  was  apprehended 
by  the  gardes  du  commerce,  he  could  not  prevent  it." 

"  Sir,"  said  Monsieur  Renaudin,  with  a  sort  of  desperate 
calmness,  "  before  we  attempt  to  ehicidate  this  new  and  mys- 
terious affair,  let  me  know  whether  I  am  to  hear  anything 
more  about  the  unhappy  Minna." 

Monsieur  Hyacinthe  gravely  replied  that  the  Minna  affair 
was  over ;  on  hearing  which,  his  lodger  thanked  Heaven  with 
great  fervour — for  he  had  felt  it  impossible  to  divest  himself 
of  secret  misgivings  on  this  point — and  proceeded  to  inform 
him  that  he  laboured  under  a  mistake  in  supposing  him  to  be 
Monsieur  de  St.  Maur.  But  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  only  smiled 
hicredulously.  "  It  was  no  business  of  his,  but  Monsieur 
could  not  expect  him  to  believe  this."  Such,  however,  seemed 
to  be  Monsieur  Renaudin's  intention ;  but  his  efforts  proved 
fruitless.       Monsieur    Hyacinthe    remained    convinc<?d    that 


S76  SEVEN    TEARS. 

Monsieur's  real  name  was  not  Renaudin,  and  must  conse 
quently  be  St.  Maur.  Mfmsieur  had  his  private  reasons  for 
lodging  in  such  a  poor  place  as  this  ;  Monsieur  thought  it 
shabby  to  pay  his  tailor  ;  evidently  Monsieur  was  the  indi- 
vidual in  question." 

"  Very  well,"  returned  the  exasperated  Renaudin,  "  I  sup- 
pose /  am  Monsieur  de  St.  Maur.  But  granting  this,  what 
business  is  it  of  yours  ?  "  he  fiercely  added. 

"  Don't  bully  me,  sir  ! "  loftily  observed  Monsieur  Hya- 
cinthe,  making  a  dignified  retreat  towards  the  door.  "  I  am 
not  one  of  your  unfortunate  tradesmen  to  bear  with  it.  If 
you  wish  to  leave  this  house,  you  can  do  so  at  once." 

"  1  protest  against  this,"  exclaimed  a  voice  from  the  land- 
ing ;  "  and  I  hi»pe  that  if  Monsieur  has  anything  like  decent 
feeling  left,  he  will  wait  fn-  the  arrival  of  the  two  police  offi- 
cers for  whom  I  am  going  to  send,  and  who  cannot  be  long 
without  making  their  appearance,  and  allow  himself  to  be 
quietly  taken  to  prison." 

"  To  prison  ! — police  officers  !  Well,  what  have  I  done 
now  ?  "  asked  Renaudin,  with  a  gloomy  smile.  "  Killed  or 
murdered  1  " 

"  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,"  continued  the  voice  on  the  landing, 
"  I  call  you  to  witness  that  he  has  confessed  his  horrible  in- 
tent in  the  plainest  terms  !  No,  sir,  you  have  not  done  the 
deed,  but  your  design  against  my  life  was  not  the  less  crim- 
inal.    I  consider  my  escape  a  miraculous  one  !  " 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  speech.  Monsieur  Moreau,  who 
was  the  speaker,  ventured  so  far  as  to  look  into  the  room, 
though  he  prudently  remained  behind  Monsieur  Hyacinthe, 
whose  person  acted  as  an  effectual  shield  for  his  own. 

"  Now  what  does  this  mean  ?  "  wildly  exclaimed  the  un- 
happy Monsieur  Renaudin. 

"  This  means,"  continued  Monsieur  Moreau,  "  that  Mon- 
sieur's real  character  and  designs  are  now  known ;  that  there 
are  such  things  as  traitors  among  conspirators,  and  that  peo- 
ple may  receive  letters  by  which  they  learn  that  they  are 
going  to  be  murdered ;  and  though  the  name  of  the  mur- 
dered may  be  concealed,  Monsieur  will  easily  understand  that 
there  is  no  difficulty  in  guessing  at  it." 

The  unhappy  Monsieur  Renaudin  heard  this  speech  in  the 
silence  of  dismay  ;  but  when  it  was  over — "  So,"  he  ex- 
claimed, sinking  down  on  a  seat  in  a  kind  of  solemn  fury,  "  so 
it  seems  no  silly  girl  can  run  off,  no  madman  squander  his 
money,  and  no  fool  think  himself  a  murdered   man,  but  I 


SEVEN   TEARS.  377 

must  be  the  seducer,  the  spendthrift,  and  the  assassin ! 
Keall}',  gentlemen,  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you." 

"  Sir,"  drily  replied  Monsieur  Ilyacinthe,  "  I  had  your 
character  from  your  own  lips ;  and  events  have  shown  that 
you  were,  as  you  boasted,  renjarkably  sincere." 

Monsieur  Renaudin  thrust  his  left  hand  into  tlie  opening 
of  his  waistcoat,  and  assumed  the  Napoleon  attitude,  in  order 
to  bid  defiance  to  his  enemies  with  more  effect ;  but  a  bright 
thought  seemed  to  flash  across  his  mind,  and  he  suddenly 
checked  himself, 

"  Leave  me,"  said  he,  in  an  authoritative  tone ;  "  and  let 
me  have  pen,  ink,  and  paper  :  there  is  that  on  my  mind  which 
must  be  revealed.  Yes,"  he  solemnly  added,  "  all  shall  be 
confessed.  But  remember,"  he  continued,  in  a  menacing  tone, 
"  to  let  no  one  even  appi-oach  the  door  of  this  room,  or  linger 
on  the  staircase,  until  half  an  hour. at  least  has  elapsed." 

Fear  and  curiosity  induced  Monsieur  Moreau  and  Mon- 
sieur Ilyacinthe  to  comply  with  this  re(]uest ;  for  the  former 
was  fully  convinced  that  the  alarmed  Renaudin  was  going  to 
sacrifice  his  friends  to  his  safety,  and  reckoned  on  the  names 
of  a  dozen  accomplices  at  the  very  least ;  whilst  Monsieur 
Ilyacinthe  gloomily  congratulated  himself  on  the  tale  of  horror 
which  his  lodger  was  going  to  unfold.  A  lingering  feeling  of 
suspicion,  however,  induced  them  to  remain  on  the  first-floor 
landing  until  the  half  hour  was  over,  when  they  impatiently 
hurried  up-stairs.  Renaudin's  room  door  was  partly  open, 
and  Monsieur  Ilyacinthe  cautiously  peeped  in.  A  light  was 
burning  on  the  table,  and  a  letter  was  lying  near  it  ;  but 
Renaudin  had  vanished.  The  truth  flashed  across  his  mind ; 
he  rushed  in,  tore  the  letter  open,  and  read  its  contents  aloud  : 

"  The  manifold  persecutions  which  I  have  endured  in  this 
house  compel  me  to  retire  from  the  shelter  of  its  inhospitable 
roof,  as  I  feel  convinced  that  designs  against  either  my  life  or 
property  are  entertained  by  certain  individuals  who  dwell  be- 
neath it.  All  I  say  to  my  persecutors  is,  that  they  may  live 
to  repent  of  their  conduct." 

"  Monsieur  Hyacinthe,"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Moreau,  in 
a  prophetic  tone,  "  mark  my  words — I  am  a  dead  man  ;  "  and 
he  retired  to  his  apartment  with  the  heroic  air  of  a  man  re- 
signed to  the  prospect  of  being  shot  at  the  first  opportunity. 

But  Monsieur  Hyacinthe's  personal  fears  Avere  out- 
weighed on  this  occasion  by  his  curiosity,  which  was  greatly 
excited  by  Renaudin's  mysterious  disappearance.  Madame 
Latour's  assertion,  that  the  fugitive  had  effected  his  escape  by 


37S  SEVEN   YEAKS. 

going  down   a  back  staircase,  and  opening  the  street  door 
whilst  she  was  asleep  in  her  lodge,  he  always  treated  with  the 
contempt  which  such  a  commonplace  explanation  deserved 
Indeed  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  would  have  been  rather  sorry  to 
find  out  the  truth.     As  his  late. lodger  owed  him  nothing,  and 
had  done  him  no  real  injury,  he  f(jund  it  pleasant,  upon  the 
whole,  to  have  been  connected  with  such  a  fearful  and  desper- 
ate character.     There  was,  as  he  poetically  expressed  it,  "  a 
horrid  charm  in  it,  and  food  for  the  imagination."     Fate,  ho\v  - 
ever,  seemed  perversely  bent  on  dispelling  the  romance  and 
mystery  with  which  he  had  invested  Renaudin,  and  to  show 
this  luckless  individual  in  the  mc^st  commonplace  aspect.     In 
the  first  place,  it  was  ascertained  shortly  after  his  disappear- 
ance, that  he  was  not  Monsieur  de  St.  Maur  ;  then,  as  though 
this  was    not  bad  enough,  Monsieur    Hyacinthe  disfovered, 
amongst  the  few  articles  which  his  lodger  had  left  behind  him, 
a  small  book,  from  which  he. learned  that  Monsieur  Renaudin 
had  1500  francs  in  the  savings'   bank — a  mean  and  paltry 
piece  of  economy  which  made  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  justly  in- 
dignant, as  affording  another  proof  of  the  gross  manner  in 
which  he  had  been  taken  in.     He  was  still  smarting  under  the 
mortification  of  this  discovery,  when  a  friend  of  his  treacher- 
ous lodger  came  to  claim,  in  his  name,  the  pistol — which  also 
turned  out  to  be  a  mere  counterfeit,  as,  whether  loaded  with 
powder  or  lead,  it  wonld  not  go  off — the  razors,  and  the  book. 
Monsieur  Hyacinthe  delivered  up  the  articles  with  a  hope 
that  this  was  the  last  time  he  should  hear  of  their  owner. 
Such,  however,  was  not  to  be  the  case,  for  the  very  same  day 
]Madame    Latour    triumjihantly  asited  him  if  he    knew  who 
Renaudin  was  ?     Monsieur  Hyacinthe  said  "  No,"  with  the  air 
of  a  man  resigned  to  anything  he  may  hear. 

"  I  got  it  all  out  of  his  friend  !  "  exclaimed  the  portress, 
with  evident  exultation.     "  He  is- — a  iiairdresser  !  " 

Monsieur  Hyacinthe  was  at  first  stunned  by  this  new  blow : 
the  splendid,  the  extravagant,  the  terrible  Renaudin  a  hair- 
dresser !  But  no  !  it  could  not  be  !  he  would  not  believe  it. 
But,  alas  !  even  his  scepticism  was  obliged  to  yield  to  the 
evidence  of  his  senses  ;  for  the  hairdresser  to  whose  establish- 
ment the  redoubtable  Renaudin  belonged,  took  a  shop  in  a 
neighbouring  street,  so  that  longer  doubt  was  impossible. 
There  have  been,  however,  such  things  as  romantic  hairdress- 
ers ;  but  though  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  fancied  for  a  time  that 
Renaudin  might  belong  to  that  class,  this  was  a  short-lived 
illusion.     The  voung  man,  according  to  the  universal  testi 


BEVEN    TEAES.  379 

mony,  lee!  a,  most  exemplary  life :  instead  of  going  to  drink 
or  dance  at  the  barrier,  he  spent  his  Sundays  with  his  family, 
occasionally  indulging  in  the  harmless  amusement  of  taking 
out  his  sisters  for  a  walk.  On  learning  these  circumstances, 
Monsieur  Hyacinthe  bitterly  declared  that  "  he  gave  him  up." 
His  only  comfort  under  this  trying  dispensation  was,  that 
Renaudin  afforded  a  living  proof  of  the  tendency  which  made 
every  individual  seek  to  clieat  and  deceive  him. 

There  is  no  knowinij  how  Monsieur  Moreau  micht  have 
acted  under  the  influence  of  the  dangerous  neighbourhood  in 
which  he  was  now  placed,  if  he  hod  not  discovered  about  this 
time  that  the  anonymous  letter  which  had  caused  him  so  much 
alarm  was  only  a  practical  joke  of  one  of  his  friends — a  fact 
which  he  took  in  high  dudgeon.  As  for  Monsieur  Renaudin, 
he  seemed  to  bear  very  philosophically  the  degrading  position 
to  which  he  was  reduced  in  the  eyes  of  his  former  acquaint- 
ances. Perhaps  he  had  learned,  from  personal  experience, 
that  though  it  is  very  fine  and  agreeable  to  be  thought  a  des- 
perate sort  of  character,  it  occasionally  happens  to  be  incon- 
venient, as  there  are  simple  people  who  will  take  you  at 
your  word,  whatever  ill  qualities  you  may  bestow  on  your- 
self. However  that  may  be,  it  will  perhaps  be  gratifying  to 
the  reader  to  state,  that  Renaudin  continues  to  be  the  same 
exemplary  character  he  always  was  ;  he  has  forsworn  all  am- 
bitious thoughts,  and  is  satisfied  with  being  considered  one  of 
the  most  prudent,  economical,  and  gentle  professors  of  his 
gentle  craft. 


AN  EXCELLENT  OPPOETUNITY. 

The  Rue  St.  Denis  is  a  busy  place  in  Paris  ;  for  it  is  dirty, 
thronged,  and  wealthy.  We  all  know  that  those  tall  dingy 
houses  might  be  gilt  if  they  chose,  and  that  if  they  remain 
gloomy  and  dull,  it  is  because  gloom  and  dulness  of  aspect  are 
business-like,  and  have  been  so  from  time  immemorial.  Thus 
on  looking  at  those  houses  there  arise  in  the  beholder's  mind 
vague  visions  of  vast  commerce;  of  bales  of  goods  piled  in 
lofty  rooms;  of  dusty  ledgers  and  account  books,  a  goodly 
library,  and,  above  all,  of  busy  wrinkled  men,  who  have  grown 
bent  and  grey  in  the  noble  art  of  making  money. 

The  streets  leading  to  the  Rue  St.  Denis  share  in  its  priv- 
ileges ;   they  are  dirty,  gloomy,  and  thoroughly  business-like 


380  SEVEN   YEAKS. 

In  one  of  those  streets  there  stands  a  tall  and  ancient  house, 
not  different  in  that  respect  from  its  neighbours,  the  lower 
portion  of  which  is  a  large  mercer's  shop.  This  establishment 
is  held  to  be  one  of  the  very  best  in  the  neighbourhood,  and. 
has  for  many  years  belonged  to  an  individual  on  whom  we  will 
bestow  the  name  of  Ramin. 

About  ten  years  ago,  Monsieur  Ramin  M-as  a  jovial  red- 
faced  man  of  forty,  who  joked  his  customers  into  purchasing 
his  goods,  flattered  the  pretty  grisettes  outrageously,  and  now 
and  then  gave  them  a  Sunday  treat  at  the  barrier,  as  the 
cheapest  way  of  securing  their  custom.  Some  people  thought 
him  a  careless,  good-natured  fellow,  and  wondered  how,  with 
his  off-hand  ways,  he  contrived  to  make  money  so  fast,  but 
those  who  knew  him  well  saw  that  he  was  one  of  those  who 
"never  lost  an  opportunity."  Others  declared  that  Monsieur 
Ramin's  own  definition  of  his  character  was,  that  he  was  a 
"  bon  enfant,"  and  that  "  it  was  all  luck."  He  shruiro-ed  his 
shoulders  and  laughed  when  people  hinted  at  his  deep  scheming 
in  making,  and  his  skill  in  taking  advantage  of,  excellent 
opportunities. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  gloomy  parlour  one  fine  morning  in 
spring,  breakfasting  from  a  dark  liquid  honoured  with  the 
name  of  onion  soup,  glancing  at  the  newspaper,  and  keeping  a 
vigilant  look  on  the  shop  through  the  open  door,  when  his  old 
servant  Catherine  suddenly  observed : 

"  T  suppose  you  know  Monsieur  Bonelle  has  come  to  live 
in  the  vacant  apartment  on  the  fourth  floor  ?  " 

"  What  ! "  exclaimed  Monsieur  Ramin  in  a  loud  key. 

Catherine  repeated  her  statement,  to  which  her  master  lis- 
tened in  total  silence. 

"Well!"  he  said  at  length,  in  his  most  careless  tone, 
'  what  about  the  old  fellow  V  "  And  he  once  more  resumed 
his  triple  occupation  of  reading,  eating,  and  watching. 

"  Why,"  continued  Catherine,  "  they  say  he  is  nearly 
dying,  and  that  his  housekeepei'.  Marguerite,  vowed  he  could 
never  get  up-stairs  alive.  It  took  two  men  to  carry  him  up ; 
and  when  he  was  at  length  quiet  in  bed.  Marguerite  went 
down  to  the  porter's  lodge  and  sobbed  there  a  whole  hour, 
saying,  '  Her  poor  master  had  the  gout,  rheumatism,  and  a 
oad  asthma ;  that  though  he  had  been  got  up-stairs,  he  would 
never  come  down  again  alii'e;  that  if  she  could  only  get  him 
to  confess  his  sins  and  make  his  will,  she  would  not  mind  it  so 
much  :  but  that  when  she  spoke  of  the  lawyer  or  the  priest,  hd 


SEVEN    YEARS.  3S1 

blas^pheroed  at  her  like  a  heathen,  and  declared  he  -would  live 
to  bury  her  and  every  body  else." 

Monsieur  Raniin  heard  Catherine  with  great  attention, 
forgot  to  finish  his  soup,  and  remained  for  five  niinutes  in  pro- 
found rumination,  without  so  much  as  perceiving  two  custom- 
ers who  had  entered  the  shop,  and  were  waiting  to  be  served. 
When  aroused,  he  was  heard  to  exclaim  : 
"  What  an  excellent  opportunity  !  " 

Monsieur  Bonelle  had  been  Ramin's  predecessor.  The 
succession  of  the  latter  to  the  shop  was  a  mystery.  No  one 
ever  knew  how  it  was  that  this  young  and  poor  assistant 
managed  to  replace  his  patron.  Some  said  that  he  had 
detected  Monsieur  Bonelle  in  frauds  which  he  threatened  to 
expose,  unless  the  business  were  given  up  to  him  as  the  price 
of  his  silence;  others  averred  that,  having  drawn  a  prize  in 
the  lottery,  he  had  resolved  to  set  up  a  fierce  opposition  over 
the  way,  and  that  Monsieur  Bonelle,  having  obtained  a  hint  of 
his  intentions,  had  thought  it  most  prudent  to  accept  the 
trifling  sum  his  clerk  oft'ered,  and  avoid  a  ruinous  competition. 
Some  charitable  souls — moved  no  doubt  by  Monsieur  Bonelle's 
misfortune — endeavoured  to  console  and  pump  him  ;  but  all 
they  could  get  from  him  was  the  bitter  exclamation,  "  To 
think  I,  should  have  been  duped  by  him/  "  For  E.amin  had 
the  art,  though  then  a  mere  youth,  to  pass  himself  off  on  his 
master  as  an  innocent  provincial  lad.  Those  who  sought  an 
explanation  from  the  new  mercer  were  still  more  unsuccessful. 
"  ^^J  gt)od  old  master,"  he  said  in  his  jovial  way,  "  felt  in  need 
of  repose,  and  so  I  obligingly  relieved  him  of  all  business  and 
botheration." 

Years  passed  away ;  Ramin  prospered,  and  neither  thought 
nor  heard  of  his  "  good  old  master."  Tlie  house,  of  which  he 
tenanted  the  lower  portion,  was  offered  for  sale  :  he  had  long 
coveted  it,  and  had  almost  concluded  an  agreement  with  the 
actual  owner,  when  Monsieur  Bonelle  unexpectedly  stepped 
in  at  the  eleventh  hour,  and  by  offering  a  tritle  more  secured 
the  bargain.  The  rao-e  and  mortification  of  Monsieur  liamiu 
were  extreme.  He  could  not  understand  how  Bonelle,  wlmm 
be  had  thought  ruined,  had  scraped  up  so  large  a  suuj  ;  his 
lease  was  out,  and  he  now  felt  himself  at  the  mercy  of  the  man 
he  had  so  much  injured.  But  either  Monsieur  Bonelle  was 
free  from  vindictive  feelings,  or  those  fejliags  did  not  blind 
him  to  the  expediency  of  keeping  a  good  tenant;  for  though 
he  raised  the  rent,  until   Monsieur  llamin  groaned  inwardly, 


382  SEVEN   YEARS. 

he  did  not  refuse  to  renew  the  lease.      They  had  met  at  that 
period;  but  never  since. 

"  Well,  Catherine,"  observed  Monsieur  Ramin  to  his  old 
servant,  on  the  following  morning,  "  how  is  that  good  Monsieur 
lionelle  getting  on  V  " 

"  I  dare  say  you  feel  very  uneasy  about  him,"  she  replied, 
with  a  sneei". 

Monsieur  Ramin  looked  up  and  frowned. 

"  Catlierine,"  said  he,  dryly,  "  you  will  have  the  goodness, 
in  the  first  place,  not  to  make  impertinent  remarks;  in  the 
second  place,  you  v.'ill  oblige  me  by  going  up-stairs  to  in- 
quire after  the  health  of  Monsieur  Bonelle,  and  say  that  I  sent 
you." 

Catherine  grumbled,  and  obeyed.  Her  master  was  in  the 
shop,  when  she  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  and  delivered  with 
evident  satisfaction  the  followino-  gracious  message  : 

"  Monsieur  Bonelle  desires  his  compliments  to  you,  and 
declines  to  state  how  he  is ;  he  will  also  thank  you  to  attend 
to  your  own  shop,  and  not  to  trouble  yourself  about  his 
health." 

"  How  does  he  look  ?  "  asked  Monsieur  Ramin,  with  per 
feet  composure. 

"  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him.  and  he  appears  to  me  to  be 
rapidly  preparing  for  th'e  good  offices  of  the  undertaker." 

Monsieur  Eainin  smiled,  rubbed  his  hands,  and  joked 
merrily  with  a  dark-eyed  grisette,  who  was  cheapening  some 
ribbon  for  her  cap.  That  girl  made  an  excellent  bargain 
that  day. 

Towards  dusk  the  mercer  left  the  shop  to  the  care  of  his 
attendant,  and  softly  stole  up  to  the  fourth  story.  In  answer 
to  his  gentle  ring,  a  little  old  woman  opened  the  door,  and, 
giving  him  a  rapid  look,  said   briefly  : 

Monsieur  is  inexorable ;  he  won't  see  any   doctor  what- 


u 


She  was  going  to  shut  the  door  in  his  face,  when  Ramin 
quickly  interposed,  under  his  breath,  with  "  /  am  not  a 
doctor." 

She  looked  at  him  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Are  you  a  lawyer  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,  my  good  lady," 

"  Well,  then,  are  you  a  priest  ?  " 

"  I  may  almost  say,  quite  the  reverse." 

"  Indeed  you  must  go  away,  master  sees  no  one." 


SEVEN    YEAES.  383 

Once  more  she  would  have  shut  the  door  ;  but  Ptamiu 
prevented  her. 

"  Mj  good  ladj,"  said  he,  in  his  most  insinuating  tones, 
"  it  is  true  I  am  neither  a  lawyer,  a  doctor,  nor  a  priest.  I 
am  an  old  friend,  a  very  old  friend  of  your  excellent  master; 
I  have  come  to  see  good  Monsieur  Bonelle  in  Lis  present  afflic- 
tion." 

Marguerite  did  not  answer,  but  allowed  him  to  enter,  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him.  He  was  going  to  pass  from  the 
narrow  and  gloomy  ante  chamber  into  an  inner  room — whence 
now  proceeded  a  sound  of  loud  coughing — when  tlie  old  wo- 
man laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  raising  herself  on  tiptoe 
to  reach  his  ear,  whispered  : 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  sir,  since  you  are  his  friend,  do  talk 
to  him;  do  tell  him  to  make  his  will,  and  hint  somctiiing 
about  a  soul  to  be  saved,  and  all  that  sort  of  thiuir  :  do. 
sir!" 

Monsieur  Ramiu  nodded  and  winked  in  a  way  that  said 
''  I  will."  He  proved,  however,  his  prudence  by  not  speak- 
ing aloud ;  for  a  voice  from  within  sharply  exclaimed  : 

"  Marguerite,  you  are  talking  to  some  one.  Marguerite,  I 
will  see  neither  doctor  nor  lawyer  ;  and  if  any  meddling  priest 
dare — " 

"  It  id  only  an  old  friend,  sir,"  interrupted  Marguerite, 
opening  the  inner  door. 

Her  master,  on  looking  up,  perceived  the  red  face  of  Mon- 
sieur Ramin  peeping  over  the  old  woman's  shoulder,  and  ire- 
fuUy  cried  out : 

"  How  dare  you  bring  that  fellow  here  ?  And  you,  sir, 
how  dare  you  come  ?  " 

"  My  good  old  friend,  there  are  feelings,"  said  Ramin, 
laying  his  hand  on  his  heart, — "  there  are  feelings,"  he  repeat- 
ed, "  that  cannot  be  subdued.  One  such  feeling  brought  me 
here.  The  fact  is,  I  am  a  good-natured,  easy  fellov/,  and  I 
never  bear  malice.  I  never  forget  an  old  friend,  but  love  to 
forget  old  differences  when  I  find  one  party  in  affliction." 

He  drew  a  chair  forward  as  he  spoke,  and  composedly 
seated  himself  opposite  to  his  late  master. 

Monsieur  Bonelle  was  a  thin  old  man,  with  a  pale  sharp 
face  and  keen  features.  At  first  he  eyed  his  visitor  from  the 
depths  of  his  vast  arm-chair;  but,  as  if  not  satisfied  with  this 
distant  view,  he  bent  forward,  and  laying  both  hands  on  his 
thin  knees,  he  looked  up  into  Kamin's  face    with   a  fixed  and 


88-i  SEVEN   YEARS. 

piercing  gaze.  He  had  not,  however,  the  power  of  disconcert- 
iug  his  guest. 

"  What  did  you  come  here  for  ?  "  he  at  length  asked. 

"  Merely  to  have  the  extreme  satisfaction  of  seeing  how 
you  arc,  my  good  old  friend.      Nothing  more." 

"  Well,  look  at  me — and  then  go." 

Nothing:  could  be  so  discouraoiuo- ;  but  this  was  an  ex- 
cellent  opportunity,  and  when  Monsieur  liauiin  had  an  ex- 
cellent opportunity  in  view,  his  pertinacity  was  invincible. 
Being  now  resolved  to  stay,  it  was  not  in  Monsieur  Bonelle's 
power  to  banish  him.  At  the  same  time,  he  had  tact  enough 
to  render  his  presence  agreeable.  He  knew  that  his  coarse 
and  boisterous  wit  had  often  delighted  Monsieur  Bonelle  of 
old,  and  he  now  exerted  himself  so  successfully  as  to  betray 
the  old  man  two  or  three  times  into  hearty  laughter. 

"  Eamin,"  said  he,  at  length,  laying  his  thin  hand  on  the 
arm  of  his  guest,  and  peering  with  his  keen  glance  into  the 
mercer's  purple  face,  "  3'ou  are  a  funny  fellow,  but  I  know 
you  ;  you  cannot  make  me  believe  j-ou  have  called  just  to 
see  how  I  am,  and  to  entertain  me.  Come,  be  candid  for 
once;   what  do  you  w:int?" 

Kamin  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  laughed  blandly, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  Ga7i  you  suspect  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  sliop  now  out  of  which  you  can  wheedle  me," 
continued  the  old  man  ;  "  and  surely  you  are  not  such  a  fool 
as  to  come  to  me  for  money." 

"  Money  V  "  repeated  the  draper,  as  if  his  host  had  men- 
tioned something  he  never  dreamt  of.      "  Oh,  no  !  " 

Bamin  saw  it  would  not  do  to  broach  the  subject  he  had 
really  come  about  too  abruptly,  now  that  suspicion  seemed 
so  wide  awake — the  opportunity  had  not  arrived. 

"  There  is  something  up,  Ramin,  I  know  ;  I  see  it  in  the 
twinkle  of  your  eye;  but  you  can't  deceive  me  again." 

"  Deceive  you  ?  "  said  the  jolly  schemer,  shaking  his  head 
reverentially.  "  Deceive  a  man  of  your  penetration  and 
depth?  Impossible!  The  bare  supposition  is  flattery.  My 
dear  friend,"  he  continued,  soothingly,  "  I  did  not  dream  of 
such  a  thing.  Tlie  fact  is,  Bonelle,  though  they  call  me  a 
jovial,  careless,  rattling  dog,  I  have  a  conscience  ;  and,  some- 
how, I  have  never  felt  quite  easy  about  the  way  in  which.  I 
became  j'our  successor  downstairs.  It  was  rather  sharp 
practice,  I  admit." 

Bonelle  seemed  to  relent. 

"  Now  for  it,"  said  the  opportunity  hunter    to  himself. — 


SEVEN    YEAES.  385 

"  By-the-bj  "  (speaking  aloud),  "  tliis  house  must  b«  a  great 
trouble  to  you  in  your  present  weak  state  ?  Two  of  your 
lodgers  have  lately  gone  away  without  paying — a  gieat  nui- 
sance, especially  to  an  invalid." 

"  I  tell  you  I'm  as  sound  as  a  colt." 

''  At  all  events,  the  whole  concern  must  be  a  great  bother 
to  you.      If  I  were  you  I  would  sell  the  house." 

"  And  if  I  were  ?/ow,,"  returned  the  landlord  dryly,  "  I 
would  buy  it, — " 

"  Precisely,"  interrupted  the  tenant  eagerly. 

''  That  is,  if  you  could  get  it.  Phoo  !  I  knew  you  were 
after  something.  Will  you  give  eighty  thousand  francs  for 
it  ?  "  abruptly  asked  Monsieur  Bonelle. 

"  Eighty  thousand  francs  !  "  echoed  Ramin.  Do  you  take 
me  for  Louis  Philippe  or  the  Bank  of  France  ?  " 

"  Then  we'll  say  no  more  about  it — are  you  not  afraid  of 
leaving  your  shop  so  long  ?  " 

Ramin  returned  to  the  charge,  heedless  of  the  hint  to  de- 
part. "  The  fact  is,  my  good  old  friend,  ready  money  is  not 
my  strong  point  just  now.  But  if  you  wish  very  much  to  be 
relieved  of  the  concern,  what  say  you  to  a  life  annuity  ?  I 
could  manage  that." 

Monsieur  Bonelle  gave  a  short,  dry,  church-yard  cough, 
and  looked  as  if  his  life  were  not  worth  an  hour's  purchase. 
"  You  think  yourself  immensely  clever,  I  dare  say,"  he  said. 
'■  They  have  persuaded  you  that  I  am  dying.  Stuff !  I  shall 
bury  you  yet." 

The  mercer  glanced  at  the  thin,  fragile  frame,  and  ex- 
claimed 10  himself,  "  Deluded  old  gentlema'n  !  "  "  My  dear 
Bonelle,"  he  continued,  aloud,  "  I  know  Avell  the  strength  of 
your  admirable  constitution  ;  but  allow  me  to  observe  that  you 
neglect  yourself  too  much.  Now,  suppose  a  good  sensible 
doctor — " 

"  Will  you  pay  him  ?  "  interrogated  Bonelle,  sharply. 

"  Most  willingly,"  replied  Ramin,  with  an  eagerness  that 
made  the  old  man  smile.  "  As  to  the  annuity,  since  the  sub- 
ject annoys  you,  we  will  talk  of  it  some  other  time." 

"  After  you  have  heard  the  doctor's  report,"  sneered 
Bonelle. 

The  mercer  gave  him  a  stealthy  glance,  which  the  old  man's 
keen  look  immediately  detected.  Neither  could  repress  a 
smile  :  these  good  souls  understood  one  another  perfectly,  and 
Ramin  saw  that  this  was  not  the  excellent  opportunity  he 
desired,  and  departed. 
17 


386  SEVEN    YEARS. 

The  next  day  Ramin  sent  a  neighbouring  -medical  man, 
and  beard  it  was  bis  opinion  that  if  Bonelle  held  on  for 
three  months  longer,  it  would  be  a  miracle.     Delightful  news  I 

Several  days  elapsed,  and  although  very  anxious,  Ramin 
assumed  a  careless  air,  and  did  not  call  upon  bis  landlord,  or 
take  any  notice  of  him.  At  the  end  of  the  week  old  Mar- 
guerite entered  the  shop  to  make  a  trifling  purchase. 

''  And  bow  are  we  getting  on  up-stairs  ?  "  negligently 
asked  Monsieur  llamin. 

"  Worse  and  worse,  my  good  sir,"  she  sighed.  "  We  have 
rheumatic  pains,  which  make  us  often  use  expressions  the 
reverse  of  Christian-like,  and  yet  nothing  can  induce  us  to  see 
either  the  lawyer  or  the  priest ;  the  gout  is  getting  nearer  to 
our  stomach  every  day,  and  still  we  go  on  talking  about  the 
strength  of  our  constitution.  Oh,  sir,  if  you  have  any  in- 
fluence with  us,  do,  pray  do,  tell  us  how  wicked  it  is  to  die 
without  making  one's  will  or  confessing  one's  sins." 

"I  shall  go  up  this  very  evening,"  ambiguously  replied 
Monsieur  Ramin. 

He  kept  his  promise,  and  found  Monsieur  Bonelle  in  bed, 
groaning  with  pain,  and  in  the  worst  of  tempers. 

"  What  poisoning  doctor  did  you  send  ?  "  he  asked,  with  an 
ireful  glance;  "  I  want  no  doctor,  I  am  not  ill;  I  will  not  fol- 
low his  prescription  ,  he  forbade  nie  to  eat ;   I  will  eat." 

"  He  is  a  very  clever  man,"  said  the  visitor.  "  He  told 
me  that  never  in  the  whole  course  of  his  experience  has  be 
met  with  what  he  called  so  much  '  resisting  power  '  as  exists 
in  your  frame.  He  asked  me  if  you  were  not  of  a  long-lived 
race." 

"  That  is  as  people  may  judge,"  replied  Monsieur  Bonelle. 
"  All  I  can  say  is,  that  my  grandfather  died  at  ninety,  and 
my  father  at  eighty-six." 

"  The  doctor  owned  that  you  had  a  wonderfully  strong 
constitution." 

"  Who  said  I  hadn't?  "  exclaimed  the  invalid,  feebly. 

"  You  may  rely  on  it,  you  would  preserve  your  health 
better  if  you  had  not  the  trouble  of  these  vexatious  lodgers. 
Have  you  thought  about  the  life  annuity  ?  "  said  Ramin,  as 
carelessly  as  he  could,  considering  how  near  the  matter  was  to 
his  hopes  and  wishes. 

"  Why,  I  have  scruples,"  returned  Bonelle,  coughing.  "  I 
do  not  wish  to  take  you  in.  My  longevity  would  be  the  ruin 
of  you." 


SEVEN    TEAES.  387 

"  To  meet  that  difficulty,"  quickly  replied  the  mercer^ 
"  we  can  reduce  the  interest." 

"  But  I  must  have  high  interest,"  placidly  returned  Mon- 
sieur Bonelle 

Raniln,  on  hearing  this,  burst  into  a  loud  fit  of  laughter, 
called  Monsieur  Bonelle  a  sly  old  fox,  gave  him  a  poke  in  the 
ribs,  which  made  the  old  man  cough  for  five  minutes,  and  then 
proposed  that  they  should  talk  it  over  some  other  day.  The 
mercer  left  Monsieur  Bonelle  in  the  act  of  protesting  that 
he  felt  as  strong  as  a  man  of  forty. 

Monsieur  Eamin  felt  in  no  hurry  to  conclude  the  proposed 
agreement.  "  The  later  one  begins  to  pay,  the  better,"  he 
said,  as  he  descended  the  stairs. 

Days  passed  on,  and  the  negotiation  made  no  way.  It 
struck  the  observant  tradesman  that  all  was  not  right.  Old 
Marguerite  several  times  refused  to  admit  him,  declaring  her 
master  was  asleep  :  there  was  something  mysterious  and  for- 
bidding in  her  manner  that  seemed  to  Monsieur  Kamin  very 
ominous.  At  length  a  sudden  thought  occurred  to  him  :  the 
housekeeper — wishing  to  become  her  master's  heir — had  heard 
his  scheme  and  opposed  it.  On  the  very  day  that  he  arrived 
at  this  conclusion,  he  met  a  lawyer,  with  whom  he  had 
formerly  had  some  transactions,  coming  down  the  stairo-tse. 
The  sight  sent  a  chill  through  the  mercer's  commercial  heart, 
and  a  presentiment — one  of  those  presentiments  that  seldom 
deceive — told  him  it  was  too  late.  He  had,  however,  the  for- 
titude to  abstain  from  visiting  Monsieur  Bonelle  until  evening 
came ;  when  he  went  up,  resolved  to  see  him  in  spite  of  all 
Marguerite  might  urge.  The  door  was  half  open,  and  the  old 
housekeeper  stood  talking  on  the  landing  to  a  middle-aged 
man  in  a  dark  cassock. 

"  It  is  all  over  !  The  old  witch  has  got  the  priests  at  him," 
thought  Eamin,  inwardly  groaning  at  his  own  folly  in  allow- 
ing himself  to  be  forestalled. 

"  You  cannot  see  Monsieur  to-night,"  sharply  said  Mar- 
guerite, as  he  attempted  to  pass  her. 

"  Alas  !  is  my  excellent  friend  so  very  ill  ?  "  asked  Ramin, 
in  a  mournful  tone. 

"  Sir,"  eagerly  said  the  clergyman,  catching  him  by  the 
button  of  his  coat,  "  if  you  are  indeed  the  friend  of  that  un- 
happy man,  do  seek  to  bring  him  into  a  more  suitable  frame 
of  mind.  I  have  seen  many  dying  men,  but  never  so  much  ob- 
stinacy, never  such  an  infatuated  belief  in  the  duration  of 
life." 


388  SEVEN   TEAES. 

"  Then  you  tbink  he  really  is  dying  ?  "  asked  Ramin  ;  and, 
in  spite  of  the  melancholy  accent  he  endeavoured  to  assume, 
there  was  something  so  peculiar  in  his  tone,  that  the  priest 
looked  at  him  very  fixedly  as  he  slowly  replied : 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  think  he  is." 

"  Ah  !  "  was  all  Monsieur  Ramin  said ;  and  as  the  clergy- 
man had  now  relaxed  his  hold  of  the  button,  Ramin  passed  in 
spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  Marguerite,  who  rushed  after  the 
priest.  He  found  Monsieur  Bonelle  still  in  bed,  and  in  a 
towering  rage. 

"  Oh  !  Ramin,  my  friend,"  he  groaned,  "  never  take  a 
housekeeper,  and  never  let  her  know  you  have  any  property. 
They  are  harpies,  Ramin, — harpies  !  such  a  day  as  I  have  had; 
first,  the  lawyer,  who  comes  to  write  down  '  my  last  testa- 
mentary dispositions,'  as  he  calls  them  ;  then  the  priest,  who 
gently  hints  that  I  am  a  dying  man.      Oh,  what  a  day !  " 

"  And  did  you  make  your  will,  my  excellent  friend  ?  "  soft- 
ly asked  Monsieur  Ramin,  with  a  keen  look. 

"  Make  my  will  ?  "  indignantly  exclaimed  the  old  man ; 
"  make  my  will  ?  what  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  do  you  mean  to  say 
I  am  dying  ?  " 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  piously  ejaculated  Ramin. 

"  Then  why  do  you  ask  me  if  I  have  been  making  my 
will  ?  "  angrily  resumed  the  old  man.  He  then  began  to  be 
extremely  abusive. 

When  money  was  in  the  way,  Monsieur  Ramin,  though 
otherwise  of  a  violent  temper,  had  the  meekness  of  a  lamb. 
He  bore  the  treatment  of  his  host  with  the  meekest  patience, 
and  having  first  locked  the  door  so  as  to  make  sure  that  Mar- 
guerite would  not  interrupt  them,  he  watched  Monsieur  Bo- 
nelle attentively,  and  satisfied  himself  that  the  excellent  oppor- 
tunity he  had  been  ardently  longing  for  had  arrived.  "  He  is 
going  fast,"  he  thought,  "  and  unless  I  settle  the  agreement 
to-night,  and  get  it  drawn  up  and  signed  to-morrow,  it  will  be 
too  late." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  he  at  length  said  aloud,  on  perceiving 
that  the  old  gentleman  had  fairly  exhausted  himself,  and  waa 
lying  panting  on  his  back,  "  you  are  indeed  a  lamentable  in- 
stance of  the  lengths  to  which  the  greedy  lust  of  lucre  will 
carry  our  poor  human  nature.  It  is  really  distressing  to  see 
Marguerite,  a  faithful,  attached  servant,  suddenly  converted 
into  a  tormenting  harpy  by  the  prospect  of  a  legacy  !  Law- 
yers and  priests  Hock  around  you  like  birds  of  prey,  drawn 
hither  by  the  scent  of  gold !     Oh,  the  miseries  of  having  deli- 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  389 

cate  health  combined  with  a  sound  constitution  and  large 
property  ! " 

"  Ramin,"  groaned  the  old  man,  looking  inquiringly  into 
his  visitor's  face,  "  you  are  again  going  to  talk  to  me  about 
that  annuity — I  know  you  are  !  " 

"  My  excellent  friend,  it  is  merely  to  deliver  you  from  a 
painful  position." 

"  I  am  sure,-Ramin,  you  think  in  your  soul  I  am  dying," 
whimpered  Monsieur  Bonelle. 

"  Absurd,  my  dear  sir.  Dying  ?  I  will  prove  to  you  that 
you  have  never  been  in  better  health.  In  the  first  place  you 
feel  no  pain." 

"  Excepting  from  rheumatism,"  groaned  Monsieur  Bonelle. 

"  Rheumatism  !  whoever  died  of  rheumatism  ?  and  if  that 
be  all—" 

"  No,  it  is  not  all,"  interrupted  the  old  man  with  great 
irritability ;  "  what  would  you  say  to  the  gout  getting  higher 
and  higher  up  every  day  ?  " 

*'  The  gout  is  rather  disagreeable,  but  if  there  is  nothing 
else — " 

"  Yes,  there  is  something  else,"  sharply  said  Monsieur 
Bonelle.  "  There  is  an  asthma  that  will  scarcely  let  me 
breathe,  and  a  racking  pain  in  my  head  that  does  not  allow  me 
a  moment's  ease.  But  if  you  think  I  am  dying,  Kamin,  you 
are  quite  mistaken." 

"  No  doubt,  my  dear  friend,  no  doubt ;  but  in  the  mean 
while,  suppose  we  talk  of  this  annuity.  Shall  we  say  one 
thousand  francs  a  year  ?  '' 

"  What  ?  "   asked  Bonelle,  looking  at  him  very  fixedly. 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  mistook  :  I  meant  two  thousand  francs 
per  annum,"  hurriedly  rejoined  Ramiu. 

Monsieur  Bonelle  closed  his  eyes,  and  appeared  to  fall  into 
a  gentle  slumber.  The  mercer  coughed  ;  the  sick  man  never 
moved. 

"  Monsieur  Bonelle." 

No  reply. 

"  My  excellent  friend." 

Utter  silence. 

"  Are  you  asleep  V  " 

A  long  pause. 

"  Well,  then,  what  do  you  say  to  three  thousand  ?  " 

Monsieur  Bonelle  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Raniin,"  said  he  sententiously,  "  you  are  a  fool;  the  house 
brings  me  in  four  thousand  as  it  is." 


390  SEVEN   YEARS. 

This  was  quite  false,  and  the  mercer  knew  it ;  but  he  had 
his  own  reasons  for  wishing  to  seem  to  believe  it  true. 

"  Grood  Heavens  !  "  said  he,  with  an  air  of  great  innocence, 
"  Who  could  have  thought  it,  and  the  lodgers  constantly  run- 
ning away.  Four  thousand  ?  Well,  then,  you  shall  have  four 
thousand." 

Monsieur  Bonelle  shut  his  eyes  once  more,  and  murmured 
"  The  mere  rental — nonsense!  "  He  then  folded  his  hands  on 
his  breast,  and  appeared  to  compose  himself  to  sleep. 

"  Oh,  what  a  sharp  man  of  business  he  is  !  "  Ramin  said, 
admiringly  :  but  for  once  omnipotent  flattery  failed  in  its 
efi"ect :  "  So  acute  !  "  continued  he,  with  a  stealthy  glance  at 
the  old  man,  who  remained  perfectly  unmoved.  "  I  see  you 
will  insist  upon  making  it  the  other  five  hundred  francs." 

Monsieur  Ramin  said  this  as  if  five  thousand  five  hundred 
francs  had  already  been  mentioned,  and  was  the  very  summit 
of  Monsieur  Bonelle"s  ambition.  But  the  ruse  failed  iu  its 
efi"ect;  the  sick  man  never  so  much  as  stirred. 

"  But,  my  dear  friend,"  urged  Monsieur  Ramin,  in  a  tone 
of  feeling  remonstrance,  "  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  too 
shai'p,  too  acute.  How  can  you  expect  that  I  shall  give  you 
more  when  your  constitution  is  good,  and  you  are  to  be  such  a 
long  liver  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  may  be  carried  off"  one  of  those  days,"  quietly 
observed  the  old  man,  evidently  wishing  to  turn  the  chance  of 
his  own  death  to  account. 

"  Indeed,  and  I  hope  so,"  muttered  the  mercer,  who  was 
getting  very  ill-tempered. 

"  You  see,"  soothingly  continued  Bonelle,  "  you  are  so 
good  a  man  of  business,  Ramin,  that  you  will  double  the 
actual  value  of  the  house  in  no  time.  I  am  a  quiet,  easy  per- 
son, indifferent  to  money;  otherwise  this  house  would  now 
bring  me  in  eight  thousand  at  the  very  least." 

"  Eight  thousand !  "  indignantly  exclaimed  the  mercer. 
"  Monsieur  Bonelle,  you  have  no  conscience.  Come  now,  my 
dear  friend,  do  be  reasonable.  Six  thousand  francs  a  year  (I 
don't  mind  saying  six)  is  really  a  very  handsome  income  for  a 
man  of  your  quiet  habits.  Come,  be  reasonable."  But  Mon- 
sieur Bonelle  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  reason,  and  closed  his  eyes 
once  more.  What  between  opening  and  shutting  them  for 
the  next  quarter  of  an  hour,  he  at  length  induced  Monsieur 
Ramin  to  offer  him  seven  thousand  francs. 

u  Yerj  well,  Ramin,  agreed,"  he  quietly  said  ;  "  you  have 


SEVEN    TEAKS.  391 

made  an  unconscionable  bargain."     To  this  succeeded  a  violent 
fit  of  coughing. 

As  Ramiu  unlocked  the  door  to  leave,  he  found  old  Mar- 
guerite, who  had  been  listening  all  the  time,  ready  to  assail 
him  with  a  torrent  of  whispered  abuse  for  duping  her  "  poor 
dear  innocent  old  master  into  such  a  bargain."  The  mercer 
bore  it  all  very  patiently;  he  could  make  allowances  for  her 
excited  feelings,  and  only  rubbed  his  hands  and  bade  her  a  jovial 
good  evening. 

The  agreement  was  signed  on  the  following  day,  to  the  in- 
dignation (if  old  Marguerite,  and  the  mutual  satisfaction  of  the 
parties  concerned. 

Every  one  admired  the  luck  and  shrewdness  of  Ramiu,  for 
the  old  man  every  day  was  reported  worse ;  and  it  was  clear 
to  all  that  the  first  quarter  of  the  annuity  would  never  be  paid. 
Marguerite,  in  her  wrath,  told  the  story  as  a  grievance  to  every 
one  :  people  listened,  shook  their  heads,  and  pronounced  Mon- 
sieur ilamin  to  be  a  very  clever  fellow. 

A  month  elapsed.  As  Ramin  was  coming  down  one  morn- 
ing from  the  attics,  where  he  had  been  giving  notice  to  a  poor 
widow  who  had  failed  in  paying  her  rent,  he  heard  a  light  step  on 
the  stairs.  Presently  a  sprightly  gentleman,  in  buoyant  health 
and  spirits,  wearing  the  form  of  Monsieur  Bonelle,  appeared. 
Ramin  stood  ayhast, 

"  Well,  Ramiu,"  gaily  said  the  old  man,  "  how  are  you 
getting  on  ?  Have  you  been  tormenting  the  poor  widow  up- 
stairs ?     Why,  man,  we  must  live  and  let  live  !  " 

"  Monsieur  Bonelle,"  said  the  mercer,  in  a  hollow  tone, 
"  may  I  ask  where  is  your  rheumatism  ?  " 

"  Gone,  my  dear  friend, — gone." 

"  And  the  gout  that  was  creeping  higher  and  higher  every 
day,"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Ramin,  in  a  voice  of  anguish. 

"  It  went  lower  and  lower,  till  it  disappeared  altogether," 
composedly  replied  Bonelle. 

''  And  your  asthma — " 

'*  The  asthma  remains,  but  asthmatic  people  are  proverbial- 
ly long-lived.  It  is,  I  have  been  told,  the  only  complaint  that 
Methusehih  was  troubled  with."  With  this  Bonelle  opened 
his  door,  shut  it,  and  disappeared. 

Ramin  was  transfixed  on  the  stairs ;  petrified  with  intense 
disappointment,  and  a  powerful  sense  of  having  been  duped. 
When  he  was  discovered,  he  stared  vacantly,  and  raved  about 
an  excellent  opportunity  of  taking  his  revenge. 

The  wonderful  cure  was   the  talk   of  the  neighbourhood, 


892  SEVEN   YEARS. 

■whenever  Monsieur  Bonelle  appeared  in  the  streets,  jauntily 
flourishing  his  cane.  In  the  first  frenzy  of  his  despair,  Ramin 
refused  to  pay  ;  he  accused  every  one  of  having  been  in  a  plot 
to  deceive  him  ;  he  turned  oif  Catherine  and  expelled  his 
porter ;  he  publicly  accused  the  lawyer  and  priest  of  con- 
spiracy;  brought  an  action  against  the  doctor,  and  lost  it. 
He  had  another  brought  against  him  for  violently  assaulting 
Marguerite,  in  which  *he  was  cast  in  heavy  damages.  Mon- 
sieur Bonelle  did  not  trouble  himself  with  useless  remon- 
strances, but,  when  his  annuity  was  refused,  employed  such 
good  legal  argumehts,  as  the  exasperated  mercer  could  not 
possibly  resist. 

Ten  years  have  elapsed,  and  MM.  Ramin  and  Bonelle 
still  live  on.  For  a  house  which  would  have  been  dear  at 
fifty  thousand  francs,  the  draper  has  already  handed  over 
seventy  thousand. 

The  once  red-faced,  jovial  Ramin  is  now  a  pale,  haggard 
man,  of  sour  temper  anc^  aspect.  To  add  to  his  anguish,  he 
sees  the  old. man  thrive  on  that  money  which  it  breaks  his 
heart  to  give.  Old  Marguerite  takes  a  malicious  pleasure  in 
giving  him  an  exact  account  of  their  good  cheer,  and  in  ask- 
ino;  him  if  he  duos  not  think  Monsieur  looks  better  and  better 
every  day.  Of  one  part  of  this  torment  Ramin  might  get  rid, 
by  giving 'his  old  master  notice  to  quit,  and  no  longer  having 
him  in  his  house.  But  this  he  cannot  do  ;  he  has  a  sacred 
fear  that  Bonelle  would  take  some  excellent  opportunity  of 
dying  without  his  knowledge,  and  giving  some  other  person 
an  excellent  opportunity  of  personating  him,  and  receiving 
the  money  in  his  stead. 

The  last  accounts  of  the  victim  of  excellent  opportunities 
represents  him  as  being  gradually  -worn  down  with  disappoint- 
ment. There  seems  every  probability  of  his  being  the  lii'st 
to  leave  the  world ;  for  Bonelle  is  heartier  than  ever. 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  393 


THE  EXPERIENCES  OF   SYLYIE   DELMARE 

CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  the  eve  of  New  Year's  day.  I  sat  alone  in  the 
dining-room,  now  cold  and  dark ;  the  drawing-room  door  was 
slightly  ajar ;  I  could  see  my  step-mother  sitting  by  the  fire- 
side ;  she  looked  smiling  and  pleased ;  her  two  daughters 
stood  talking  and  laughing  together  on  the  hearth-rug;  the 
lamp  was  still  unlit,  but  the  fire  burned-  with  a  bright,  cheer- 
ftil  glow  ;  I  turned  away  my  gknce  with  a  saddened  heart. 

This  was  the  last  day  of  the  year,  the  day  of  Saint  Syl- 
vester, my  patron  saint, — yet  who  had  offered  me  the  bouquet 
of  choice  flowers "?  Avho  had  embraced  me  tenderly,  and  wished 
that  this  my  fete-day  might  be  gay  and  happy  ? — No  one. 

It  had  not  always  been  so.  I  remembered  the  wonderful 
nosegay  my  poor  father  never  failed  to  provide  on  this  day  for 
his  little  Sylvie  ;  the  mystery  with  which  he  placed  it  in  her 
room,  so  that  it  might  be  the  first  object  to  greet  her  sight 
when  she  woke ;  his  apparent  surprise  as  to  how  it  had  come 
there  ;  and  then  the  sudden  smile,  the  embrace  and  fond  kiss, 
all  came  back  ;  but  this  was  over  now  ;  he  had  been  dead  a 
year  and  more.  I  was  a  portionless  orphan  of  sixteen,  and 
the  only  legacy  my  father — a  retired  ofiicer  whose  pension 
died  with  him — had  been  able  to  bequeath  to  a  step-mother, 
good  indeed,  but  cold. 

They  had  loved  in  youth,  but  been  compelled  to  part. 
She  was  united  to  a  rich  old  man  ;  my  father  loved  again  and 
married-  my  mother,  who  died  young;  I  was  their  only  child. 
He  had  been  a  widower  for  several  years,  when  he  met  once 
more  his  early  love ;  she  also  was  free,  with  two  daughters 
and  a  handsome  fortune  :  they  married.  They  were  happy, 
but  the  fervour  of  their  youthful  attachment  was  over ;  my 
step-mother  could  scarcely  forgive  her  husband  the  love  he 
had  felt  for  his  first  wife ;  I  saw  that  she  was  jealous  of  the 
past,  and  that  it  pained  her  to  look  on  me,  because  I  was  said 
to  be  my  mother's  living  image.  Yet  when  my  father  was  on 
his  death-bed  she  promised  him,  of  her  own  accord,  to  bring 
me  up  with  her  daughters,  and  treat  me  as  her  child.  She 
was  an  honourable  woman,  and  rigidly  fulfilled  this  engage- 
17* 


394  SEVEN    TEARS. 

ment.  I  shared  the  studies  of  Josephine  and  Louise,  I  waa 
dressed  like  them,  I  went  out  with  them,  and  partook  of  all 
their  pleasures  ;  but  my  step-mother  was  a  woman  ;  I  was  the 
daughter  of  her  rival,  and  she  could  not  love  me. 

My  feelings  for  her  were  contradictory.  I  sometimes 
loved  and  sometimes  disliked  her.  I  resented  her  indifference 
or  blessed  her  goodness  by  turns.  I  would  have  given  any- 
thing to  be  loved  by  her ;  I  had  even  madea  few  timid  at- 
tempts ;  but  disheartened  at  their  failure,  I  at  length  kept 
aloof,  and  widened  that  line  of  separation  which  she  had  im- 
perceptibly established  betwixt  us.  Yet  the  knowledge  of  her 
coldness  always  grieved  me,  and  it  was  this  that  saddened  me 
as  I  sat  iu  the  dining  room,  unmissed  and  undisturbed,  on  the 
eve  of  New  Year's  Day. 

Ere  long  I  heard  the  great  drawing-room  door  open  ;  then 
a  servant  came  in  and  laid  down  something  on  the  floor. 
Louise  and  Josephine  uttered  exclamations  of  delight. 

"  Beautiful !  lovely  !  "  they  both  cried.  I  heard  the 
rustling  of  silk.  I  knew  the  New  Year's  presents  were  come, 
that  mine  was  amongst  the  rest,  but  I  would  not  look,  nor 
even  confess  to  myself  that  I  cared  to  look. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  them,  my  darlings,"  said  the  gentle 
voice  of  my  step-mother  ;  "  where  is  Sylvie  ?  " 

"  Moping,  of  course,"  replied  the  charitable  Louise. 

"  Of  course  !  "  echoed  her  no  less  charitable  sister. 

I  was  called,  and  came  forth  resolved  not  to  be  pleased  ; 
but  my  heart  relented  at  once  when  I  saw  the  three  dresses 
of  blue  silk  lying  on  the  sofa.  I  took  up  mine,  looked  at  it, 
and  turned  towards  my  step-mother  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
sparkling  eyes.  I  felt  glad  and  grateful ;  I  longed  to  go  up 
to  her,  to  say  something,  to  embrace  her,  but  there  was  little 
encouragenaent  in  her  cold  tone  as  she  said,  "  Sylvie,  here  is 
your  New  Year's  Day  present,"  none  in  her  calm  face  ;  be- 
sides, she  was  absorbed  in  looking  at  her  daughters,  who  were 
already  trying  on  their  dresses.  I  sighed  and  followed  their 
example.  When  Louise  and  Josephine  had  been  sufficiently 
admired  by  their  mother,  and  had  placed  themselves  at  every 
possible  distance  for  her  to  see  how  they  looked,  she  turned 
towards  the  corner  where  I  stood  apart  and  unheeded.  She 
looked  at  me,  then  at  her  daughters,  then  at  me  aojain,  and  a 
change  came  over  her  placid  countenance.  I  felt  distressed, 
for  1  knew  what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  The  daughters  of 
my  step-mother  were  wholly  unlike  her;  she  was  pretty  still, 
fair  and  delicate ;  they  were  dark,  coarse-skinned  girls,  with 


SEVEN    TEARS.  395 

hair  as  crisp  as  that  of  mulattoes.  I  certainly  was  not  hand- 
some, but  nature  had  jrriven  me  a  profusion  of  golden-coloured 
hair,  blue  eyes,  and  tL*^  clear  complexion  of  youth.  I  know 
not  under  what  maternal  delusion  my  step-motlier  laboured 
when  she  chose  a  light  blue  as  the  colour  for  the  three  dresses ; 
certain  it  is  the  eifect  for  her  daughters  was  deplorable. 
They,  poor  girls,  saw  nothing  of  this,  but  she  did,  and  as  the 
colour  happened  to  become  me  very  well,  she  suffered  doubly. 

I  felt  truly  grieved.  I  would  have  given  up  all*  the 
dresses  in  the  world  for  one  kind  glance,  for  one  word  of  af- 
fection. I  looked  at  my  step-mother  wistfully ;  I  wished  her 
to  understand  what  I  felt;  but  my  appealing  look  met  with  no 
reply ;  her  countenance  was  overcast,  and  her  eye  averted 
from  me.  My  pleasure  vanished,  the  present  gave  me  no  joy ; 
for  though  I  had  not  worn  it  more  than  a  few  minutes,  it  had 
already  been  the  cause  of  pain  to  the  giver.  I  left  the  apart- 
ment in  silence,  and  went  up  to  my  own  room  more  sad  than 
ever.  What  a  difference  between  this  and  my  father's  pres- 
ents !  He  had  once  given  me  a  little  printed  muslin  dress  not 
worth  more  than  a  few  francs,  but  I  remembered  the  delic-ht 
with  which  I  tried  it  on,  and  got  up  on  a  chair  to  see  myself 
in  my  very  diminutive  mirror,  and  thought  how  gracefully  the 
skirt  fell  in  long  and  ample  .folds,  and  how  charming  and  be- 
coming a  dress  it  was  altogether.  But  the  costly  silk  yielded 
me  no  such  gratification ;  I  sat  down,  heedless  of  creasing  it, 
and  without  so  much  as  giving  one  glance  at  the  looking- 
glass.  My  heart  was  very  full ;  I  thought  of  old  times ;  of 
my  dead  father ;  of  my  step-mother,  whom  I  could  have  loved 
so  dearly  if  she  would  only  have  allowed  me ;  of  my  loneliness 
in  this  world,  where  no  one  cared  for  me.  "  Oh  !  that  some 
one  would  only  let  me  love  a  great  deal,  and  love  me  a  little 
in  return,"  I  exclaimed  inwardly. 

My  look  here  fell  on  an  object  which  had  escaped  it  until 
then  :  it  was  only  a  nosegay  of  white  flowers,  standing  in  a  vase 
on  my  dressing-table,  but  it  made  my  heart  beat  as  I  drew  near 
it,  and  when  I  bent  to  inhale  the  fragrance  of  the  pale  blos- 
soms, the  tears  I  had  striven  to  repress  till  then,  fell  fast.  I 
knew  it  was  the  old  servant  Catherine  who  had  placed  those 
flowers  there.  She,  who  had  known  me  from  a  child,  loved 
me ;  she  had  not  forgotten  that  this  was  the  fete-day  of  her 
little  Sylvie.  I  felt  comforted,  and  almost  cheerful.  There 
is  something  in  true  kindliness  that  opens  the  heart.  What 
could  old  Catherine  do  for  me?  Nothing;  her  good-will  was 
about  as  useful  to  me   as   the  flowers  she  had  placed  in  my 


396  SEVEN   TEAKS. 

room  in  my  absence,  yet  both  gladdened  me,  gave  me  new  feel-- 
ings  and  new  hopes.  I  paced  my  room  with  a  quick  step, 
forming  schemes  for  the  future,  and  building  castles  in  the  air. 
"  I  will  not  stay  here  to  have  my  heart  daily  wounded,"  I 
thought  with  rising  pride ;  "  I  will  not  stay  to  be  a  burden  to 
those  by  whom  I  am  not  loved :  I  will  write  to  my  god- 
mother." 

I  looked  at  my  god-mother's  portrait  as  it  hung  on  the  wall 
before  me,  in  order  to  confirm  myself  in  this  resolve.  The 
face  was  young,  and,  if  not  good-looking,  at  least  good-na- 
tured. But  it  had  been  drawn  many  years  back,  and  I  knew 
that  the  respected  original  had  now  attained  a  good  old  age. 
She  lived  in  a  quiet  little  town  twenty  leagues  off;  I  had  no 
remembrance  of  her,  and,  to  my  knowledge,  she  had  never 
sought  to  see  me,  I  dutifully  wrote  to  her  on  the  first  day 
of  the  year,  and  on  the  eve  of  her  fete-day.  She  gave  me  a 
short  answer  and  her  blessing :  to  this  was  our  intercourse 
limited. 

But  I  was  young  and  romantic,  and  I  had  always  settled 
it  in  my  mind'  that  my  god-mother,  a  rich  old  maid,  with  no 
near  relatives,  was  to  be  the  good  fairy  of  my  destiny.  Now 
was  the  moment  to  test  her.  My  New  Year's  Day  letter  was 
not  yet  written;  I  framed  it  according  to  my  present  mood. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  I  received  the  desired  reply.  My 
step-mother  seemed  a  little  surprised  at  my  god-mother's  invi- 
tation for  an  indefinite  period,  but  observing  "  that  Mademoi- 
selle Touruelle  probably  meant  to  adopt  me,"  she  quietlj'  gave 
her  assent.  When  the  day  fixed  for  my  departure  arrived,  I 
perceived  that  I  felt  more  sad  than  joyful  at  the  success  of  my 
scheme.  It  seemed  unfriendly  to  leave  the  familiar  place,  the 
step-mother,  who,  with  all  her  coldness,  had  been  so  very  good ; 
the  two  girls,  who,  though  often  unkind,  had  called  me  sister. 
My  heart  yearned  towards  them  in  spite  of  repelled  affection 
and  wounded  pride;  but  they  had  so  such  feelmgs.  Louise 
and  Josephine  saw  me  depart  with  evident  pleasure  ;  their 
mother  gave  me  a  cold  embrace,  that  checked  the  thanks  for 
past  kindness  ready  to  i'A\  from  my  lips,  and  wbeu  I  entered 
the  little  car  that  was  to  convey  me  to  the  diligence  in  the 
neighbouring  town,  no  one,  save  old  Catherine,  stood  on  the 
doorway  to  see  me  depart,  aud  wish  me  a  happy  journey. 


SEVEN   YEAJJS  397 


CHAPTER  II. 


Long  before  I  had  reached  my  desfcinatiou,  I  had  comfort- 
ably settled  it  in  my  own  mind  that  my  god-mother  was  an 
angelic  old  lady,  who  would  soon  doat  upon  me,  for  whom  I 
should  entertain  great  affection  and  respect,  and  who  would 
find  in  me  the  staff  and  comfort  of  her  old  age.  That  she  was 
a  most  noble-hearted,  amiable  person  I  could  not  doubt,  for 
she  had  been  betrothed  in  youth  to  a  gentleman  who  died 
young,  and  for  whose  sake  she  was  still  a  spinster,  at  the  age 
of  seventy.         • 

It  was  late  when  I  arrived.  The  house  of  my  god-mother 
stood  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town  ;  it  was  a  quiet-looking  place, 
with  a  narrow  strip  of  garden.  The  diligence  stopped ;  I 
alighted  ;  my  trunk  was  lowered  down  on  the  pavement ;  the 
guard  blew  his  horn;  the  postillion  cracked  his  whip,  and  the 
lumbering  vehicle  clattered  down  the  narrow  street.  I  gave 
the  bell  a  timid,  hesitating  jerk  ;  a  heavy  step  was  heard  in 
the  passage,  then  the  door  opened,  and  an  enormously  stout  old 
servant,  hulding  a  light  in  her  hand,  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"  Mademoiselle  Tournelle,"  I  said  in  a  low  tone. 

The  servant  eyed  me  from  head  to  foot,  held  up  the  light 
to  see  my  trunk,  then  slowly  looked  at  me  again.  The  night 
was  cold,  the  wind  blew  keenly,  I  became  impatient. 

"  Mademoisolle  Tournelle,"  I  said  ao-ain. 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  deaf  ?  "  was  the  gracious  answer  of 
the  fat  servant.  She  condescended,  however,  to  let  me  enter, 
and  even  bent  her  majestic  person  for  the  purpose  of  lifting  up 
my  trunk.  After  the  most  desperate  efforts,  she  succeeded  in 
dragging  it  in,  puifing  very  hard,  and  eyeing  me  askance  all 
the  time.  Out  of  breath  with  this  painful  exertion,  she  si- 
lently pointed  to  a  door  on  her  right  :  I  entered.  The  room 
was  low,  small,  and  oppressively  warm.  A  large  wood  lire 
burned  on  the  hearth  ;  I  felt  a  thick  carpet  under  my  feet ;  a 
lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  gave  a  narrow  circle  of  faint, 
dim  light,  and  left  the  rest  of  tlie  room  in  comparative  obscur- 
ity. A  wide  couch,  old  high-backed  chairs,  a  mahogany  press 
that  reflected  the  fire-light  in  its  broad  polished  panels,  met  my 
rapid  glance.  ,  I  looked  for  my  god-mother,  but  all  I  could  see 
was  a  dark  massive-looking  arm-chair  by  the  fireside,  and  an 
old  cat  asleep  on  the  hearth-rug.  I  was  wondering  whether 
my  god-mother  would  soon  make  her  appearance,  when  I  heard 
a  husky  cough,  which  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  depths  of 


398  SEVEN    YEAK8, 

the  arm-chair,  and  something  strongly  resembling — in  the 
dark — a  large  black  bundle,  began  to  agitate  itself  in  the  same 
quarter.  I  came  quickly  forwjird.  I  felt  I  stood  in  the  pres- 
ence of  my  god-mother — I  was  a  foolish  little  thing  in  t*iose 
days ;  I  know  not  why  a  mist  came  over  my  eyes,  and  I  know 
not  how,  instead  of  merely  taking  my  god-mother's  extended 
hand,  I  found  myself  on  my  knees  before  her,  crying  over  the 
hand  I  had  seized-  as  if  my  heart  would  break,  and  sobbing 
*  Marraine,  Marraine  !  " 

'^  Oh  !  mon  Dieu  !  who  is  this  ?  Is  she  mad  ?  Help  ! 
Marianne  !  " — a  bell  was  rung  violently — "  the  young  lady  is 
ill ;  pick  her  up,  and  " — wheeling  back  her  chafr — "  mind  you 
do  not  let  her  come  near  me." 

There  was  no  need  to  pick  me  up.  I  was  on  my  feet  in 
an  instant,  crimson  with  surprise  and  shame. 

"  Is  it  a  fever  ?  "  continued  my  god-mother,  still  wheeling 
back  her  chair,  until  it  had  reached  the  wall.  "  Is  it  con- 
tagious ?  "     A  scent-bottle  was  at  her  nose  directly. 

I  stammered  forth  that  I  was  quite  well. 
_  "  Are  you  sure  of  it  ?  "  .said  she,   eyeing  me  cautiously ; 
quite  sure  that  you  do  not  feel  feverish  ?     Are  you  subject  to 
tits,  or  was  it  only  a  fall  ?     Are  you  hurt  ?     Oh  !  you  need 
not  show  me.     Mariamie,  see  if  the  young  lady  is  hurt." 

I  shortly  answered  that  I  was  given  to  no  fits^  and  had 
sustained  no  injury. 

"  Then  bring  us  in  the  supper,  Marianne,  it  will  do  us 
good  ;  and  you,  my  dear  child,  sit  down  opposite  me  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fire-place  that  I  may  see  you."  So  speakincr 
my  god-mother  wheeled  slowly  back  to  her  former  place,  keep- 
ing her  eye  on  me  all  the  time,  and  remaining  at  a  prudent 
distance.  I  took  the  seat  she  pointed  out,  and  being  still 
astonished  and  confused,  eyed  her  with  a  bewildered  glance. 

I  had  thought  Marianne  stout,  but,  compared  to  her  mis- 
tress, she  was  a  light  and  agile  maiden.  Mademoiselle  Tour- 
nelle  was  the  broadest  lady  I  ever  beheld  ;  the  horizontal  line 
predominated  throughout  her  whole  person.  I  never  saw  any- 
thing so  compact  as  herself  and  the  arm-chair  together  :  she 
fitted  in  the  arm-chair,  and  the  arm-chair  fitted  to  her  with 
mathematical  accuracy  ;  I  thought  of  a  plump  oyster  in  its 
shell,  and  wondered  whether  she  ever  got  out  of  it. 

After  looking  at  me  for  some  time,  and  becoming  convinced 
of  my  harmlessness,  my  god-mother  h6ped  in  a  husky  voice 
that  my  fall  had  not  hurt  me.  I  explained  that  it  was  not  ex- 
actly a  fall  had  brought  me  at  her  feet. 


SEVEN   YEARS.  399 

"  Oh !  "  she  slowly  said,  "  I  thought  it  was  ^    you  see  at 
my  age  people  have  done  with  kneeling,  weeping,  and  senti- 
ment :  things  which  only  tend  to  disturb  the  digestion." 
I  murmured  an  apology. 

"  Never  mind.  So  you  were  not  comfortable  at  home." 
I  wished  to  explain,  she  would  not  allow  me — ''  No  details,  my 
dear  child,  they  are  useless  and  distressing  things  :  I  can  im- 
agine. Take  off  your  cloak  and  bonnet ;  here  comes  the 
Bupper." 

Marianne  entered,  bearing  a  covered  dish,  from  which  a 
fricassee  of  hot  rabbit  sent  forth  a  most  savoury  odour.  My 
god-mother's  little  black  eyes  sparkled,  her  lips  moved  and 
moistened,  she  wheeled  her  chair  to  the  table,  smoothed  down 
the  table-cloth,  opened  and  spread  out  her  own  immaculate 
napkin,  and,  with  her  eyes  on  the  dish,  she  softly  rubbed  her 
fat  white  hands.  She  did  not  seem  in  any  hurry  :  no,  she 
waited  for  the  happy  moment  in  a  sort  of  placid  beatitude,  that 
bespoke  the  serenity  of  her  mind. 

"So  this  is  my  god-mother!"  thought  I,  watching  her 
picking  the  choice  bits  out  of  the  dish,  with  all  the  candour  of 
genuine  selfishness  and  gourmandise. 

"  Do  you  like  hot  fricassee  of  rabbit,  my  dear  ?  You  do. 
I  am  so  glad.  There  is  nothing  more  uncomfortable  than 
want  of  sympathy.  I  was  to  have  married  a  gentleman,  a  good 
man  certainly,  but  with  whom  I  could  never  agree.  He  de- 
tested my  fricassee,  and  I  detested  his  pate  de  foie  :  it  eud(jd 
by  carrying  him  off,  as  I  had  always  predicted." 

After  supper,  which  lasted  for  an  hour,  my  god-mother,  not 
seeming  to  think  that  I  might  be  fatigued  and  need  rest,  asked 
me  to  read  her  to  sleep  with  a  newspaper :  in  two  minutes  she 
was  in  a  comfortable  doze,  which  lasted  half  an  hour.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  she  woke  up  quite  refreshed,  and  rang  the 
bell.  Marianne  entered,  carrying  a  tray  covered  with  delica- 
cies, which  she  placed  on  a  convenient  little  table  at  my  god- 
mother's elbow ;  she  next  brought  forward  a  very  comfortable 
high-backed  chair,  then  a  soft  cushion  for  the  feet,  and  placing 
both  opposite  the  fire,  composedly  seated  herself  near  her  mis- 
tress, with  whom  she  began  to  discuss  the  menu  of  the  next 
day's  dinner. 

"  Potage  au  riz,  Marianne,  it  is  long  since  we  had  any." 
"  I  have  no  objection  to  the  potage ;  but  you   must   have 
cotelettes  au  basilic  for  the  second  course." 

"  With  a  poularde  a  la  bourgeoise,"  placidly  suggested  »ij 
god-mother. 


400  SEVEN"   TEARS. 

"  No,  indeed,"  snappishly  said  the  cook,  "  you  shall  have 
ducks  en  hochepot.  and  be  glad  to  get  them  too." 

My  god-mother  yielded  the  point  with  a  sigh  :  she  evi- 
dently requested  the  poularde.  The  third  course  was  extremely 
stormy  :  the  mistress  insisted  on  partridges,  the  cook  declared 
she  should  be  satisfied  with  a  poulet  a  la  reine.  Overpowered 
with  fatigue,  I  fell  asleep  as  they  renewed  the  quarrel  over  the 
dessert. 

I  remained  with  my  god-mother  a  whole  year,  during 
which  I  was  oppressed  with  comfort,  and  loaded  with  good 
things.  There  was  not  a  genuine  angle  in  the  whole  house. 
Everything  was  softened  down,  cushioned,  and  rounded  off,  as 
if  for  the  use  of  the  most  fragile  being.  The  beds  of  painful 
softness  were  shrouded  in  by  drowsy-looking  curtains ;  the 
doors  had  thick  coats  of  wadding  on,  and  flew  open  before  the 
slightest  touch ;  there  were  thick  blinds  to  keep  out  the  light, 
and  high  screens  to  keep  off  the  wind ;  the  chairs  were  vast 
and  deep,  the  cushions  soft  and  easy.  But  what  was  this  to 
our  perpetual  feeding  ?  Breakfast  at  eight,  dejeuner  a  la 
fourchette  at  eleven,  gouter  at  two,  dinner  at  six,  and  supper 
at  nine.  At  the  end  of  a  week  I  declared  I  could  not  possibly 
partake  of  more  than  three  meals  a  day,  and  sank  for  ever  in 
the  esteem  of  my  god-mother  and  her  cook  Marianne. 

For  all  this  she  was  one  of  the  most  good-natured  of  selfish 
gourmands,  quite  ready  to  do  a  kindness,  if  she  were  only  put 
in  the  way.  This  indeed  was  an  indispensable  condition.  I 
do  not  think  she  doted  on  me,  and  my  romantic  fancies  of 
being  the  staff  and  comfort  of  her  old  age  certainly  vanished 
on  nearer  view ;  yet  she  liberally  paid  masters  to  attend  me 
when  I  expressed  a  desire  to  continue  my  studies,  and  author- 
ised me  to  open  a  subscription  with  the  circulating  library,  as 
soon  as  I  had  hinted  a  wish  for  a  higher  sort  of  literature  than 
that  which  was  to  be  found  in  her  cookery  books.  She  even 
allowed  me  to  read  her  to  sleep  of  an  evening  with  some  ro- 
mantic tale,  provided  it  were  not  of  a  painful  nature,  and  that 
all  ended  comfortably,  for,  as  she  wisely  observed,  "  life, 
whether  in  fiction  or  reality,  should  always  be  like  a  good  din- 
ner, and  close  with  the  dessert." 

We  were  enjoying  ourselves  after  this  fashion  on  a  Quiet 
winter's  evening,  and  my  god-mother  had  just  dropped  off  into 
her  usual  doze,  when  I  heard  a  carriage  stopping  at  the  door. 
The  bell  was  rung  violently ;  Marianne  opened,  and  in  a  ievi 
Bcoonds  entered  the  parlour. 


SEVEN    YEAES.        .  401 

"  Madame,"  said  sbe,  with  a  bewildered  look,  "  a  lady — 
your  sister,  she  says — wishes  to  see  you." 

I  had  never  heard  of  mv  ffod-mother  having;  more  than  one 

I/O  O 

sister,  who  had  died,  or  was  said  to  have  died,  in  America.  I 
conjectured  this  was  she  or  her  ghost,  and  the  horror-struck 
look  of  Mademoiselle  Tournelle  showed  me  she  had  come  to 
the  same  conclusion.  Before  she  could  recover  or  even  answer, 
the  visitor  entered.  She  was  a  tall,  thin,  pale-faced  woman, 
clad  in  black  from  head  to  foot,  with  feathers  in  her  bonnet, 
that  waved  like  the  plumes  of  a  hearse,  and  along  black  velvet 
cloak,  not  unlike  a  pall.  Her  slow,  majestic  pace  completed 
hei  funereal  appearance.  She  paused  on  the  threshold,  and 
exclaiming  with  a  broken  sob,  "  Where  is  she  ?  where  is  my 
own  darlino-  sister  ?  " 

She  opened  her  anus  to  receive  my  transported  god-mother. 
But,  apart  the  effort  it  would  have  been  to  rise  so  soon  after 
dinner,  Mademoiselle  Tournelle  was  too  much  stupefied  to 
dream  of  doing  aught  save  staring  with  a  secret  horror  at  her 
sister,  who  accordingly  fell  upon  her  bosom,  and  vowed  with 
many  a  sob,  "  that  since  they  had  met  again,  death  alone 
should  part  them  ;  that  she — my  god-mother — need  not  fear, 
for  that  her  own  Ro::^alie  would  never,  never  leave  her." 

I  never  saw  so  tearful  and  melancholy  a  being  as  this  same 
Rosalie.  She  embraced  her  sister  and  wept ;  she  drew 
away  to  look  at  her  and  wept,  and  when  I  thought  she  had 
fairly  given  it  up,  she  hugged  her  again  with  another  sob  and 
a  fresh  burst  of  tears.  My  god-mother  endured  all'  with  as 
much  mental  as  physical  helplessness  :  to  protest  or  resist  was 
as  impracticable  a  feat  as  to  leave  her  arm-chair  and"  fly. 

The  mournful  Rosalie,  though  still  weeping  abundantly,  had 
enough  self-possession  left  to  go  and  dismiss  the  fiacre  at  the 
door,  and  haggle  about  the  fare  with  the  driver.  When  this 
important  task — which  ended  in  the  utter  discomfiture  of  the 
cabman — was  over,  she  ordered  Marianne  to  take  in  her  lug- 
gage, and  walked  up-stairs  hei'self,  for  the  purpose  of  selecting 
the  best  of  her  sister's  spare  bed-rooms.  My  poor  god-mother 
never  moved  once  all  the  time.  Alarmed  at  her  mute  despair, 
I  sought  to  comfort  her,  but  all  she  could  or  would  say  was 
that  "  since  Rosalie,  instead  of  being  dead — as  she  ought  to 
have  been — was  alive  and  well,  it  must  be  she  who  was  destined 
to  leave  this  world."  Slie  closed  her  eyes  and  feebly  shook 
her  head  when  I  endeavoured  to  remove  this  painful  impres- 
sion. I  perceived  at  supper  how  deeply  this  idea  had  taken 
hold  of  her  mind.     We   had   a  hot   fricassee  of  rabbit,  buJ 


403  SEVEN    YEARS. 

scarcely  had  my  god-mother  tasted  the  first  mouthful,  when 
she  laid  down  hel-  fork,  and  giving  me  a  mournful  look  ex- 
claimed : 

"  No  mushroom  !  " 

In  her  agitation,  Marianne  had — for  the  first  time — for- 
gotten that  important  ingredient,  and  my  god-mother  took  this 
as  a  clear  warning  that  she  was  soon  to  be  called  away  from 
the  good  things  of  this  world.  From  that  fatal  day  her  appe- 
tite declined  visibly.  The  ghostlike  Rosalie — the  mystery  of 
whose  reappearance  was  never  cleared  up — carried  her  off  in 
six  weeks.  I  should  have  thought  half  th«  time  quite  suificient, 
but  my  god -mother  had  a  strong  constitution.  For  six  weeks 
her  breakfast  was  disturbed  by  the  lamentations  of  Rosalie, 
who  mourned  to  think  that  her  darling  sister's  years  would 
not  permit  them  to  be  long  together;  at  dinner  she  heard  her- 
self besought  in  pathetic  accents  "  to  be  frugal — to  remember 
that  their  dear  father  had  died  of  apoplexy,  and  that  their 
dearest  mother  was  so  dropsical !  "  When  supper  time  came 
round,  Rosalie  wept  over  her,  and  told  her  "  she  was  fast  breaking 
up."  At  the  end  of  the  six  weeks  my  poor  god  mother,  fairly 
conquered,  took  to  her  bed  and  died. 

I  had  not  loved  her  very  much,  yet  I  grieved  for  her  death. 
She  had  been  kind  in  her  way ;  besides,  it  is  one  of  my  weak- 
nesses to  get  easily  attached  to  the  human  faces  around  me.  I 
moreover  pitied  my  ]^oor  god-mother,  and  lamented  her  un- 
happy end.  By  her  will.  Mademoiselle  Tournelle  left  her 
property  to  Marianne,  ''  as  a  token  of  esteem  for  her  high 
talents,  and  gratitude  f  )r  her  faithful  services."  A  codicil 
gave  me  a  dowry  of  ten  thousand  francs,  of  which  the  interest 
alone  was  at  my  disposal  until  I  became  of  age.  A  second 
codicil  bestowed  "  on  the  sister  who  had  shortened  her  days — 
her  forgiveness." 

Rosalie  was  loud  in  her  lament :  "  she  had  sacrificed  her- 
self to  an  ingrate,  incapable  of  appreciating  her  devotion." 
Then  suddenly  her  wrath  vented  itself  upon  me,  whom  she  call- 
ed "  a  little  intrigante,"  and  on  Marianne,  whom  she  accused 
of  having  poisoned  her  poor  dear  sister  with  her  abominable 
cookery  in  general,  and  a  perfidious  dish  of  mushrooms  in  par- 
ticular. How  Marianne  rose  in  her  wrath,  and  turned  Rosalie 
out  of  doors,  is  a  matter  foreign  to  the  history  of  my  experi- 
ences. 


SEVEN  YEAKS.  403 


CHAPTER  III. 

Behold  me,  kind  reader,  in  a  diligence  once  more,  but  this 
timo  on  my  road  to  Paris.  I  am  nearly  eighteen ;  my  dowry 
yields  me  the  magnificent  sum  of  three  hundred  francs,  but  I 
shrewdly  conclude  that  this  is  not  quite  enough  to  live  upon, 
and  therefore  proceed  to  the  capital,  where  a  host  of  pupils 
are,  of  course,  ready  to  avail  themselves  of  my  talents, — I 
have  taken  pains,  and  am  really  an  accomplished  young  lady. 
I  go  to  Paris  for  three  reasons:  the  first,  that  which  I  have 
mentioned ;  the  second,  that  I  am  determined  to  see  the 
world;  the  third,  that  Paris  is  the  present  residence  of  my 
step-mother,  under  whose  guardianship  I  in  some  sort  consider 
myself,  and  with  whom  I  have  kept  up  a  distant  correspond- 
ence. She  coldly  approves  my  resolve  of  remaining  in  some 
respectable  boarding-school  until  I  can  procure  pupils,  or  a 
situation  as  governess;  and  informs  me  that  Josephine  and 
Louise  have  married  advantageously  in  Normandy,  our  native 
province ;  but  why  she  herself  stays  in  Paris  she  does  not 
mention.  She  ofters  me  no  home  with  her,  nor,  to  say  the 
truth,  do  I  desire  one,  for  my  heart  is  still  sore  with  the  mem- 
ory of  old  times. 

My  journey  was  uninteresting.  Paris  confused  more  than 
it  dazzled  me.  The  office  of  the  diliijence  was  not  far  from 
my  step-mother's  residence ;  I  hired  a  fiacre,  and  was  at  her 
door  within  half  an  hour  of  my  arrival.  The  house  was  mean, 
though  clean ;  she  lived  on  tiie  fourth-floor  in  a  small  apart- 
ment, scantily  furnished.  This  was  strange  for  one  of  her 
elegant  tastes  and  habits.  She  received  me  kindly,  but  coldly, 
as  usual.      We  spoke  of  my  god-mother. 

"  I  wonder  she  did  not  leave  you  more  than  ten  thousand 
francs,"  said  Madame  Delmare ;  "  I  thought  she  would  adopt 
you." 

"  She  was  very  kind,"  I  replied  ;  "  I  had  no  claim  upon 
her;  I  have  no  claim  on  any  one."  My  step-mother  pressed 
her  hand  to  her  forehead :  I  thought  she  looked  troubled.  I 
hastened  to  speak  of  Josephine  and  Louise. 

•'  They  ai-e  so  happy,"  said  the  fond  mother,  with  a  sudden 
smile  and  a  brightening  look. 

I  understood  all  at  once  :  she  had  given  everything  up  to 
marry  her  plain  daughters,  and  this  thought  could  make  the 
miserable  little  apartment  a  sunny  and  joyful  place  for  her. 


404  SEVEN    TEARS. 

But  why  was  she  not  with  either  of  them  ?  why  was  she  alone  ? 
I  could  Dot  help  putting  the  thought  into  words.  She  hastily 
replied  "  that  it  was  her  own  choice,  quite  her  own  choice  ;  she 
had  always  liked  Paris."  And  she  gave  me  an  anxious  look, 
as  if  she  feared  I  might  not  believe  her. 

Why  is  it  that,  when  I  beheld  her  there  alone  and  forsaken, 
hiding  her  poverty  in  the  bosom  of  a  great  and  strange  city, 
the  memory  of  every  past  kindness  rose  so  strong  within  me, 
that  my  whole  heart  yearned  towards  her  ?  and  I  could  not 
but  speak  : 

"  Mamaii,"  said  I,  for  1  had  always  named  her  thus,  "  it 
so  happens  that  we  are  both  alone  in  this  strange  place.  Is 
there  anything  to  prevent  us  from  being  together  ?  I  will  be 
no  burden  to  you.  Indeed,  I  fancy  we  might  be  happier  to- 
gether." 

At  first  she  did  not  answer. 

"  My  poor  child,"'  she  said  at  length,  "  my  health  is  not 
very  good  :  you  would  have  but  a  dull  life  with  me." 

"  1  should  like  it,  I  should  like  it  dearly,"  I  eagerly  ex- 
claimed. "  Pray  let  it  be  so.  You  will  love  me  a  little  for 
my  father's  sake,  and  I  will  love  you  a  great  deal,  not  for  his 
sake  only,  but  for  your  own  sake,  and  for  all  the  good  you  did 
to  one  who  had  none  on  earth  save  you.'' 

I  laid  my  hand  upon  her  arm  and  looked  up  into  her  face, 
for  indeed  my  heart  was  in  what  I  said,  and  I  felt  very  much 
moved. 

"  Sylvie,"  answered  my  step-mother,  in  a  tremulous  tone, 
"you  are  a  good  child,  with  a  kind  heart.  God  will  bless  you 
for  all  this."  And  drawing  me  towards  her,  she  kissed  me 
and  wept. 

The  joy  her  consent  gave  me  showed  me  how  much  I  loved 
her  in  my  heart.  I  never  spent  a  happier  day  or  more  pleasant 
evening.  The  reserve  she  had  always  inspired  me  with  van- 
ished at  once.  I  talked  incessantly;  firstly,  because  joy  has 
the  effect  of  making  me  voluble;  and  secondly,  because  it  was 
so  pleasant  to  hear  my  own  voice  calling  her  "  maman." 

"  Maman,  I  shall  have  so  many  pupils,"  said  I,  arranging 
my  books  in  the  little  drawing-room.  "  Maman,  I  shall  earn 
so  nmch  money,"  I  observed  at  dinner — it  was  rather  a  fruoral 
one.  "  I  only  fear,  maman,"  said  I  in  the  evening,  "  that  I 
shall  scarcely  have  any  time  to  be  at  home  with  you." 

Maman  smiled.  iShe  was  sitting  by  the  fireside,  with 
something  of  mingled  joy  and  sadness  in  her  look  as  it  rested 
upon   me.     I   sat  on   a  low   stool  at  her  feet,   building  my 


SEV^EN   YEAES.  405 

glorious  castles  in  the  air,  with  the  zeal  and  faith  of  an  archi- 
tect of  eighteen.  They  stood  so  clearly  before  nie.  That 
very  day,  within  two  hours  of  my  arrival,  I  had  taken  ray  ad- 
vertisement to  be  inserted  in  the  Petites  AfEches  :  "  A  young 
lady — well  educated — good  musician — English  and  Italian — 
terms  moderate  !  "  What  parent  or  guardian  could  resist 
this  appeal,  and  be  so  blind  to  the  great  rule  of  self-iuterest  as 
not  to  secure  my  services  at  once  ? 

"  Maman,"  I  continued,  in  my  random  talk,  "  you  should 
always  wear  black  silk,  nothing  becomes  you  so  well.  Why 
have  you  no  flowers  now  ?  I  know  you  are  fond  of  them. 
Shall  we  not  remove  from  here  ?  As  I  was  coming  home 
from  the  newspaper  office  I  saw  a  charming  fourth-floor  to 
let,  with  a  large  balcony,  quite  the  thing  for  your  flowers,  and 
a  handsome  room  that  would  do  so  well  for  me  to  have  classes 
at  home  ;  for  you  see  it  would  be  a  great  deal  more  pleasant 
for  the  pupils  to  come  to  me — than  for  me  to  be  running  after 
them,  in  wind,  rain,  and  every  weather  ;  besides  the  expense 
of  takiuii'  omnibuses  in  order  to  be  in  time  " 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  maman,  a  little  gravely,  "  you  have 
not  got  the  pupils  yet." 

"  But  they  are  coming,"  I  confidently  replied. 

We  took  the  apartment.  I  spent  no  little  of  my  ready 
money  on  furniture  for  the  drawing-room,  and  especially  on  a 
large  mahogany  table,  covered  with  green  baize,  which  I 
destined  for  the  "  classes ;  "  it  was  somewhat  dear,  but  one 
pupil  at  ten  francs  a  month  would — as  I  proved  to  maman — 
cover  the  expense  in  eight  months  and  a  half  Upon  the 
whole,  I  thought  it  cheap,  and  rejoiced  over  my  bargain. 

There  was  only  one  circumstance  which  mortified  me  : 
"  the  out-door  pupils,  whom  it  was  so  fatiguing  to  run  after  in 
wind,  rain,  and  every  weather,"  delayed  making  their  appear- 
ance. I  could  not  understand  this.  Had  my  advertisement 
appeared  ?  It  had.  Were,  then,  the  parents  and  guardians 
of  Paris  struck  with  moral  blindness,  that  they  so  recklessly 
disregarded  the  advantages  offered  to  them  ?  I  recapitulated 
inwardly.  A  young  lady — well  educated — good  musician — 
English  and  Italian — terms  moderate  :  And  yet  a  whole  fort- 
night had  elapsed,  and  no  answer  had  come. 

"  There  is  only  one  explanation  possible,"  said  I  to 
maman;  "some  unprincipled  governess  has,  by  means  as  yet 
inexplicable  to  me — but  I  shall  find  it  out — intercepted  the 
answers  of  my  unknown  coi  respondents  at  the  newspaper 
office — I  shall  have  them  sent  here  another  time — and  carried 


406  SEVEN   YEAES. 

off  my  unhappy  aud  deluded  pupils.  Nice  teaching  they  will 
get  from  her  !  This  is  very  tiresome,  for  I  shall  have  to  in- 
sert another  advertisement.  But  after  all,"  I  consolingly 
added,  "  it  is  only  a  fortnight  lost,  for  it  stands  to  reason  that 
I  could  not  have  accepted  all  the  pupils." 

Maman  received  this  explanation  with  a  doubtful  look,  but 
she  was  unwilling  to  discourage  me. 

A  second  advertisement  was,  therefore,  sent,  with  the  wise 
precautions  I  have  mentioned.  But  when  two  days  had 
elapsed,  and  I  received  no  reply,  I  could  not  help  observing 
with  some  anxiety  : 

"  I  fear,  maman,  she  has  carried  them  all  off.  Of  course 
they  were  all  attracted  by  the  first  advertisement.  Do  you 
think  it  will  be  very  long  before  I  can  find  another  supply  ?  " 

Maman's  reply  was  more  encouraging  than  definite ;  but  I 
comforted  myself  with  the  "  classes."  I  gloried,  I  may  say  T 
revelled  in  the  "  classes."  I  beheld — in  my  mind's  eye — the 
long  table  covered  with  inkstands,  books,  and  papers,  and 
surrounded  by  attentive  pupils,  who  hung  upon  my  words. 
I — preserving  that  gravity  which  should  never  desert  a 
teacher — seriously  expound  thai  which  it  is  my  object  to 
teach,  patiently  listen  to  timid  objections,  and  gently  explain 
all  difiiculties  away.  At  the  end  of  every  month  I  receive  the 
moderate  sum  of  ten  francs  from  each  pupil — it  is  fifteen  if 
they  remain  an  hour  extra,  see  last  paragraph  but  one  of  the 
prospectus.  These  ten  francs  all  put  together  make  a  hand- 
some pile  of  five-franc  pieces,  which  1  display  to  the  astonished 
gaze  of  maman,  and  out  of  which  I  secretly  buy  her  a  rich 
black  silk  dress.  Instead,  however,  of  reproving  me  for  my 
extravagance,  she  merely  says  : 

"  Sylvie,  my  dear,  your  pupils  are  not  coming." 

The  dream  vanishes  at  once,  and  T  waken  with  a  perturbed 
spirit,  for  if  I  get  no  pupils,  what  becomes  of  the  "  classes  %  " 
h  ate,  who  then  entered  the  apartment  under  the  shape  of  our 
portress  with  a  letter  in  her  hand,  spared  me  the  trouble  of  a 
reply.     I  broke  the  seal  with  trembling  fingers. 

"  A  pupil !  a  dozen,  for  all  I  know,"  I  joyously  exclaimed ; 
"  Mademoiselle  Benoit — an  old  aunt  I  will  warrant,  with  a  le- 
gion of  nieces — wants  me  ;  she  lives  close  by  ;  how  delightful !  " 

It  was  not  in  maman's  power  to  moderate  my  transports, 
and  so  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  and  a  recommendation  to 
secure  advantageous  terms,  which  I  answered  with  a  shrewd 
look,  she  saw  me  depart  on  my  blissful  errand. 

I  was  at  the  door  of  Mademoiselle  Benoit  in  five  minutes 


SEVEN    YEARS.  407 

but  I  walked  upstairs  with  a  cool  business-like  air,  ksl  tiie 
portress  should  by  any  means  know  my  errand,  and  suspect 
this  was  my  first  pupil.  Indeed,  1  was  resolved  to  be  greatly 
on  my  guard,  and  I  decided  inwardly  that  Mademoiselle  Be- 
noit  must  be  very  deep  to  over-reach  me.  I  found  her  in 
furnished  apartments  on  the  second  floor,  in  her  boudoir  ;  her 
favourite  room,  she  said ;  I  cannot  assert  it  was  her  only  one, 
but  it  was  the  first  I  entered,  and  the  only  door  I  saw  looked 
as  if  leading  to  a  dark  closet,  by  which  I  do  not  mean  to  imply 
that  a  whole  suit  of  apartments  did  not  extend  beyond. 

IMadeiuoiselle  Benoit  was  about  forty,  sallow  and  plain, 
but  so  juvenile  in  her  attire,  that  I  looked  quite  matronly  by 
her  side  in  my  dress  of  sober  brown.  Half  rising  from  the 
sofa  on  which  she  was  reclining,  she  languidly  inquired  my 
errand.  I  explained.  She  looked  incredulous.  "  Impossi- 
ble !  "  she  exclaimed.  I  nervously  produced  the  letter.  She 
eyed  it  like  a  person  waking  from  a  dream. 

"  Ah  !  I  remember  now,"  she  thoughtfully  exclaimed  ; 
"  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  You  need  not  be  astonished,  it 
is  just  like  me." 

1  supposed  she  had  a  bad  memory  !  but  she  shook  her 
head.  "  Memor_y — no,  it  was  not  that ;  but  we  would  not 
speak  on  this  subject.  She  had  seen  my  advertisement,  and 
wished  to  know  whether  I  would  mind  devoting  a  few  hours 
to  her  daily,  as  secretary,  reader,  and  companion."  This  was 
not  what  I  had  hoped  for,  but  I  was  in  no  mood  to  refuse. 
The  next  thing  I  supposed  would  be  the  discussion  about 
terms,  and  here  I  was  ready  for  Mademoiselle  Bcnolt ;  but 
without  alluding  to  this  subject  she  merely  said  : 

"  My  nerves  render  this  plan  imperative.  I  must  place 
myself  and  my  too  ardent  feelings  under  the  control  of  a 
calmer  mind.  Certain  agitating  books  must  be  read  slowly  ; 
certain  deep  emotions  must  be  vented  slowly.  You  under- 
stand." 

I  tried  to  look  as  if  I  did,  but  I  was  thinking  of  the  terms. 
"  Besides,"  she  continued  modestly,  "  unmarried — alone — 
without  a  male  protector  in  this  great  city,  where  I  am  de- 
tained by  a  vexatious  lawsuit — obliged  to  receive  the  visits 
of  men  of  business,  I  really  cannot  dispense  with  the  pres- 
ence of  a  person  of  my  own  sex,  to  whom  I  shall  look  for 
advice  and  protection."  I  felt  confounded  at  the  idea  of  hav- 
ing to  advise  and  protect  a  lady  who  might,  without  any 
stretch  of  fancy,  have  been  my  mamma.  Heedless  of  this, 
she  proposed  that  I  should  begin  my  office  by  reading  Victor 


408  SEVEN   YEAES. 

Hugo's  last  volume,  and  she  had  already  assumed  a  listening 
attitude,  when  I  faltered  out  something  about  terms.  She 
looked  infinitely  shocked. 

"  Terms  !  money,  mon  Dieu  !  ho^v'  could  some  people  be 
so  very  worldly  ?     She  never  thought  of  money." 

I  inwardly  despised  myself  as  a  worshipper  of  mammon — 
well  I  might  in  the  presence  of  such  high  mindedness.  She 
pursued  :  "  Since  the  odious  subject  has  been  mentioned,  pray 
what  are  your  terms  'I  But  mind,  1  know  as  much  of  such 
things  as  a  baby." 

Beautiful  ignorance  and  charming  confidence.  With  what 
agonizing  nicety  did  I  calculate  the  exact  sum  I  might  consci- 
entiously ask.  At  length  it  came  out :  for  three  hours  a  day, 
fifty  francs  a  month.  "  Fifty,"  she  carelessly  repeated,  her 
mind  on  other  things,  her  eyes  on  the  ceiling ;  then  suddenly 
turning  them  upon  me,  she  added  :  "  Don't  you  think  you 
could  come  for  forty  'i  " 

"  I  do  not  think  I  could,"  I  i-eplied,  with  some  emotion. 

"  But  any  one  would,  I  assure  you,"  was  her  significant 
rejoinder. 

This  settled  the  matter.  I  perceived  that  in  my  ignorance 
I  had  asked  a  salary  so  high  as  to  startle  even  this  ingenuous 
lady.  I  was  distressed,  I  apologized  ;  I  would  have  come  for 
thirty  francs  if  she  had  asked  me. 

"  No  apologies,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh ;  "  I  admire,  I 
envy  your  worldly  wisdom.  Would  I  might  acquire  some 
of  it.  Vain  hope  !  I,  too  heedless,  too  confiding,  shall  be 
imposed  upon  to  the  end.  You,  so  acute,  so  penetrating — ah  ! 
1  envy  you.  And  now  a  few  pages  of  Victor  Hugo,  if  you 
please." 

She  once  more  assumed  the  listening  attitude.  When  we 
had  done  wath  Victor  Hugo  we  took  up  Lamartine :  in  short, 
we  went  the  round  of  French  poets  in  two  hours.  I  occa- 
sionally besought  Mademoiselle  Benoit  to  explain  various 
obscure  and  mysterious  passages,  with  which  she  seemed  par- 
ticularly enraptured,  but  she  only  turned  up  her  eyes,  shook 
her  head,  and  sighed.  "  I  was  happy  not  to  understand  such 
things  ;  I  should  never  seek  to  understand  them  ;  it  was  best 
to  remain  as  I  was.  And  now,"  she  added,  "  will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  take  a  pen,  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  prepare  to 
write  ?  " 

I  complied,  and  listened  with  some  curiosity,  for  I  felt 
confident  she  was  a  muse,  at  the  very  least ;  but  she  only  dic- 
tated the  following  letter : 


SEVEN    YEAKS.  409 

"  My  dear  Cicero, 

"  Be  not  surprised  at  the  strange  handwriting.  1  have 
secured — a  step  you  will  approve — a  companion,  whose  pru- 
dence and  worldly  wisdom  will  greatly  benefit  your  poor 
heedless  friend. 

"  I  feel  anxious  about  your  health,  not  having  seen  you 
these  two  days.  I  need  scarcely  say  that  for  the  paltry  law- 
suit I  do  not  care.  Yon  know  my  foolish  disinterestedness. 
My  opponent,  poor  man,  has  set  his  heart  on  gaining  his 
cause.  Pray  let  him  :  1  have  a  wealth  in  my  thoughts,  in  my 
feelings,  in  my  heart,  he  cannot  touch.  I  would  say  come  and 
dine  with  me  to-morrow,  did  I  not  know  your  strict  business 
habits  ;  but  you  will  perhaps  call  in  the  afternoon  to  let  me 
know  how  the  case  is  going  on.  In  the  artistic  point  of  view 
I  feel  deeply  interested  in  it." 

Mademoiselle  Benoit,  having  signed  this  letter,  requested 
me  to  fold  it  up,  but  suddenly  recollecting  herself,  she  begged 
of  me  to  open  it  again  :  "  there  was  a  little  postscription  to 
add." 

I  complied,  and  added  the  following  P.S. 

"  By  the  merest  chance — a  letter  from  the  country — I 
learned  this  morning  that  the  grandfather  of  my  opponent 
was  a  notorious  gambler  ;  that  his  eldest  son,  the  father  of  my 
opponent,  foiled ;  that  his  second  son,  the  uncle  of  my  oppo- 
nent, was  drowned  in  a  very  inexplicable  sort  of  way  ;  and 
that  the  first  wife  of  my  opponent  died  suddenly,  she  being 
then  alone  in  the  house  with  her  husband. 

"  P.P.  S.S.  I  mention  these  circumstances,  thinking  they 
may  interest  you." 

The  letter,  now  fairly  finished,  was  directed  to  a  Monsieur 
Everard,  whom  I  conjectured  to  be  her  lawyer,  and  Mademoi- 
selle Benoit  asked  me  to  post  it  as  I  was  going  home.  I  found 
maman  uneasy  at  my  long  absence.  Sitting  down  at  her  feet 
by  the  fire-side,  I  gave  her  a  minute  account  of  all  that  had 
passed.  When  I  told  her  about  the  agreement  she  shook  her 
head.  But  when  1  concluded,  and  looked  up  into  her  face 
somewhat  anxiously,  she  only  smiled  kindly,  and  said,  as  she 
smoothed  my  hair,  "  I  was  a  good  child,  and  with  a  little  more 
knowledge  of  the  world  I  would  do  very  well." 

I  felt  relieved,  for,  to  say  the  truth,  reader,  I  had  begun  to 
I'ear  that  Mademoiselle  Benoit  had  over-reached  me,  and  that 
I  had  not  been  quite  successful  with  my  first  pupil. 

Nothing  worth  mentioning  occurred  for  three  weeks,  dur- 
ing which  I  found  no  other  scholar.     I  comforted  myself  by 

18 


410  SEVEN    YEAKS. 

thinking  of  the  "  classes."     I  had  ceased  to  mention  them, 
having  a  vague  notion  that  maman,  though  unwilling  to  dis- 
courage me,  was  getting  sceptical  on  this  subject,  and  even 
looked  on  the  green  table  with  an  eye  of  disfavour.     I  wrote 
— for  Mademoiselle  Benoit — almost  daily  epistles  to  Monsieur 
Everard.  whom  I  never   saw,  but  to   whom — and  this  was 
really  provoking — I  had  to  describe  myself  as  "  the  grave 
adviser  and  prudent  worldly  friend  "  of  my  emplo;yer.     She 
informed  me  at  the  end  of  the  three  weeks  that  her  lawsuit 
was  over  ;  a  great  point,  and  that  she  had  won  ;  a  secondary 
point,  of  course.     Monsieur  Everard  was  to  dine  with  her  the 
next  day  ;  but  "unless  I  consented  to  be  present,  she  could  not 
think  of  dining  alone  even  with  a  single  man  of  his  years  and 
gravity.     I  yielded,  and  accordingly  dressed  a  little,  a  very 
little,  better  than  usual  for  the  occasion.     Monsieur  Everard 
was  already  there  when  I  arrived.     He  was  a  tall,  stiff  man, 
but  he  did  not  look  more  than  thirty,  though  grave  enough  for 
double  that  age.     He  wore  a  pair  of  green  spectacles,  which 
gave  him  a  sort  of  impenetrable  look,  and  which  I  considered 
symbolical  of  the  mysteries  of  the  law.     I  thought  he  eyed 
me  with  some  surprise ;  he  had  probably  expected  to  find  his 
client's  "  grave  adviser  "  somewhat  older.     He  soon  resumed 
his  conversation  with  our  hostess  :  they  were  talking  about 
the  lawsuit.     She  had  already — charming  obliviousness — for- 
gotten all  about  the  damages. 

"  It  was  very  foolish  ;  she  knew  it  was  ;  but  now,  posi- 
tively, how  much  was  it  ?  " 

"  Fifteen  thousand  francs,"  shortly  answered  the  lawyer. 

"  Oh  !  of  course :  how  could  I  ?  And  the  costs  you 
say—" 

"  Fall  t-n  your  antagonist,  who  being  nearly  ruined-  -" 

"  Poor  man,"  quickly  interrupted  Mademoiselle  Benoit. 

"  Asks  for  time  to  settle  his  account." 

"  Impossible,"  she  said,  with  a  deep  sigh  ;  "  I  have — you 
know  my  weakness — given  my  brother  my  solemn  word  of 
honour  there  shall  be  no  delay  ;  but  pray  let  him  know  I  pity 
him  ;  pray  do." 

"  I  believe  he  has  not  the  money,"  continued  Monsieur 
Everard. 

"  How  unprincipled  !  "  cried  Mademoiselle  Benoit,  colour- 
ing, "  but  I  remember  he  has  land." 

"  Do  you  wish  for  a  saisie  1 "  coolly  asked  the  lawyer. 

*'  Oh  !  you  cruel  man,  to  hint  at  such  a  thing  !  " 

"  Then  you  object  to  a  saisie  ?  " 


SEVEN   YEAK8.  411 

"  Alas  !  why  is  it  inevitable  1 " 

"  Mademoiselle  Benoit,  I  am  a  plain  man :  do  you  or  dc 
you  not  wish  for  a  saisie  ?  " 

She  protested  he  was  the  most  pitiless  man  in  existence : 
that  he  put  things  into  her  head  of  which  it  grieved  her  to 
think  ;  that  since  no  other  means  remained,  she  must  of  course 
say  "  yes  ;  "  but  that  she  begged  him  not  to  harrow  her  fool- 
ish feelings  any  longer  with  so  distressing  a  subject.  A  pecu- 
liar smile  curled  Monsieur  Everard's  nether  lip,  but  he  made 
no  reply,  and  bowed  coldly.  Our  charming  hostess,  anxious 
not  to  leave  us  under  a  painful  impression,  soon  recovered  her 
flow  of  spirits.  She  gaily  taxed  the  lawyer  with  his  gravity, 
and  protested  I  was  more  sedate  than  ever. 

"  You  have  no  idea,"  said  she,  addressing  him,  "  what  a 
prudent,  calculating  head  that  is.  How  I  am  checked,  sub- 
dued, and  brought  down  to  a  sober  mood,  by  this  grave 
worldly  little  friend  of  mine.     Oh  !  you  can  have  no  idea." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  he,  with  the  same  smile. 

I  coloured,  and  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  my  worldliness. 
Dinner  was  not  ready  yet,  and  Mademoiselle  Benoit  proposed 
a  walk  in  the  Tuileries  ;  we  acceded.  She  retired  to  the  room 
that  looked  like  a  dark  closet,  and  in  a  few  minutes  appeared 
in  an  elaborate  toilette,  that  threw  me  quite  in  the  shade. 

The  day  was  fine,  the  garden  was  thronged,  and  our  walk 
seemed  very  pleasant.  "VVe  had  not  proceeded  far  along  the 
broad  avenue  of  horse  chestnuts,  when  we  met  two  ladies  and 
a  gentleman.  They  gave  us  a  peculiar  look,  and  the  gentle- 
man observed  in  a  low  tone  :  "  What  a  charming  blonde." 
They  passed  on,  and  left  me  in  a  flutter.  The  green  spectacles 
of  Monsieur  Everard,  whose  arm  I  held,  were  on  me  in  a  sec- 
ond, then  as  sharply  turned  towards  Mademoiselle  Benoit ; 
her  hair  was  dark.  The  compliment  could  not  be  for  her,  yet 
I  wondered,  and  felt  incredulous.  Two  ladies  walking  together 
had  already  passed  us  ;  they  looked  at  my  companions  first, 
then  at  me,  lingered  behind,  and  one  whispered  to  the  other  : 
"  The  blonde  is  lovely."  What  woman  can  doubt  her  beauty 
when  it  is  praised  by  another  woman  1  I  confess  I  began  to 
feel  imcomfbrtable  on  this  subject.  Had  I  been  handsome 
all  along  without  knowing  it  1  Novel  heroines  always  were 
unconscious.  Perhaps  I  was  a  heroine  !  I  will  not  weary  the 
reader  by  repeating  all  the  exclamations  of  admiration  which 
were  bestowed  on  the  lovely  blonde  during  our  hour's  walk, 
1  began  to  find  that  there  was  nothing  so  astonishing  in  all 


4:13  SEVEN   TEARS. 

this  ;  I  had  never  been  counted  handsome  in  the  province ; 
but  who  did  not  know  the  discrimination  of  Parisian  taste  1 

1  was  seated  at  dinner  near  Monsieur  Everard,  but  neither 
the  lawyer  nor  his  green  spectacles  occupied  me  much :  I  was 
thinking  of  the  discovery  1  had  made. 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  your  triumph,  Mademoiselle,"  he 
observed,  after  the  soup. 

I  blushed,  and  thought  he  might  have  spared  my  modesty. 

"  What  triumph  ?  "  asked  our  hostess. 

"  I  should  have  said  the  triumph  of  your  taste.  Did  you 
not  hear  every  one  admiring  the  blonde  on  your  bonnet  1  " 

"  Oh  !  it  was  the  blonde  then,"  I  cried,  quite  bewildered. 
The  green  spectacles  were  upon  me  directly.  I  became  crim- 
son. He  said  nothing,  but  smiled  so  significantly  that  I  felt 
I  hated  him. 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Mademoiselle  Benoit,  "  I  have  been  very 
extravagant ;  my  prudent  friend  there  would  never  forgive 
me  if  she  knew  how  much  that  blonde  cost." 

Monsieur  Everard  gave  me  another  look,  but  he  had 
miercy  enough  to  remain  silent. 

I  went  home  vexed  with  the  keen-sighted  lawyer,  vexed 
with  myself  and  iny  own  foolish  vanity.  Had  I  not  eyes  to 
see  the  blonde  on  Mademoiselle's  Benoit's  bonnet  ? 

I  was  so  mortified  that  I  did  not  notice  maman's  smiling 
and  amused  face  ;  but  she  noticed  my  downcast  look  and  ques- 
tioned me.  I  told  her  what  had  happened  ;  she  laughed,  and 
bade  me  not  mind  Monsieur  Everard  or  Mademoiselle  Benoit. 

"  You  have  found  other  friends,"  she  said.  "  What  do 
you  think  of  Mademoiselle  finding  you  a  husband?" 

My  breath  seemed  gone  at  this  strange  suggestion. 

"  Yes,"  pursued  maman,  "  Mademoiselle  declares  that  she 
has  found  you  a  husband." 

I  have  not  yet  mentioned  Mademoiselle.  Her  name  was 
Leonie  Moreau,  I  believe,  but  I  am  not  sure.  No  one  had 
ever  dreamed  of  calling  her  otherwise  than  Mademoiselle. 
She  was  fifty,  brown  as  a  berry,  stout,  and  brisk  as  a  bee,  and 
she  was  Mademoiselle  for  every  one  in  the  house  in  w  hieh 
she  had  lived  for  the  last  thirty-three  years.  The  door  of  our 
apartment  faced  hers  :  we  met  her  often  on  the  -staircase,  and 
saw  a  great  deal  of  her  on  her  balcony,  which  was  a  continua- 
tion of  ours.  Maman  had  a  distant  acquaintance  with  some 
of  Mademoiselle's  relatives.  Thus  our  knowledge  of  her 
began,  and  as  Mademoiselle  had  a  warm  heart  and  a  lively 
tongue,  our  frieaidship  progressed  rapidly  ;  to  me  she  took  an 


SEVEN   YEAKS.  413 

especial  fancy.  She  fonnd  me.  strikingly  like  a  young  sister 
of  hers,  who  liad  died  some  thirty  years  before,  and  she  liked 
me  for  the  resemblance  more,  I  believe,  than  for  my  own  par- 
ticular merits.  She  never  saw  me  watering  flowers  on  the 
balcony  without  a  tear  in  her  eye,  that  did  not  check  the 
pleasant  and  habitual  smile  on  her  lips,  or  the  cheerful  "  Good 
morning "  with  which  she  always  greeted  me.  In  my 
"  classes  "  and  attempts  to  procure  pupils  she  entered  warm- 
ly, and  did  her  best,  I  am  sure,  to  second  me,  but  uselessly ; 
and  it  probably  was  her  failure  in  that  quarter  that  had  sug- 
gested to  her  the  propriety  of  finding  me  a  husband.  How 
she  meant  to  set  about  this  strange  task,  and  what  sort  of  hus- 
band it  was  to  be,  maman  could  not  or  would  not  tGll  me. 

"  Go  on  the  balcony  and  water  your  flowers,"  she  said, 
"  Mademoiselle  will  be  there,  and  she  will  tell  you  all  about 
it." 

At  first  I  said  I  would  not  go  ;  then  curiosity  proved 
stronger  than  pride  :  I  filled  my  watering-pot  and  I  stepped 
out.  A  brown  face  inmiediately  appeared  between  two  tall 
laurel  trees  standing  in  pots,  and  a  beaming  smile  welcomed 
me. 

"  What  a  lovely  evening,  Mademoiselle  Sylvie,"  said  the 
gay  voice  of  Mademoiselle. 

A  rosy  flush  spread  above  the  opposite  roof,  and  faded 
away  into  the  heavenly  blue  at  the  zenith.  It  was  a  fine  eve- 
ning, and  I  said  so  whilst  I  watered  a  rose  tree.  Mademoi- 
selle's head  stretched  out  as  far  as  it  could  go,  and  she  confi- 
dentially whispered  : 

"  I  wish  you  would  draw  a  little  nearer,  my  dear." 

I  obeyed  in  some  confusion,  and  she  half  said,  half  whis- 
pered : 

"  I  cannot  speak  loud  on  account  of  that  odious  little  thing 
down-stairs.  I  am  confident  she  listens;  else  how  could  things 
that  I  have  not  numtioned  to  more  than  half  a  dozen  trust- 
worthy people  get  wind  ?     It  looks  suspicious." 

I  confessed  it  did. 

"  Well,  th;-n.  my  dear,  let  us  speak  low.  I  mentioned  to 
your  maman  this  atteriK^on  a  little  selieine  of  my  own.  1  want 
you  to  marry  a  yoimg  cousin  of  mine.  Of  course  you  must 
kuow  more  about  it  before  you  reply.  Well,  then,  here  is  an 
exact  and  most  accurate  desci-iption  of  my  cousin,  lie  is 
t\venty-L-ight,  tall,  t!ark-haii-ed,  and  l)lue-eye(i  :  so  he  will  just 
suit  yon,  who  are  rather  sht)rt  and  fair.  Pie  has  handsome 
features,  and  a  most  pleasant  countenan-^e.     So  much  for  his 


414  SEVEN   YEAES. 

person  :  his  temper  is  angelic,  sweet,  and  most  amiable.  His 
means  are  not  great  as  yet ;  but  he  makes  money  enough,  and 
requires  but  a  small  dot.  Your  ten  thousand  francs  will  do. 
He  is  to  spend  the  evening  with  me  after  to-morrow,  and  you 
will  just  drop  in  by  chance.  He  will  know  you  by  your 
dress,  which  I  shall  describe — not  a  word  ! — he  will  not  know 
that  you  know  anything  about  it :  so  please  to  look  as  cool 
and  as  careless  as  possible.  1  mention  the  circumstance  of 
the  dress  because  some  other  girl  might  call,  and  though  he 
knows  almost  all  the  young  ladies  with  whom  I  am  acquaint- 
ed, yet  there  might  be  a  stray  one,  and  a  mistake  might  oc- 
cur. What  will  your  wear  ;  white  muslin  or  blue?  you  look 
well  in  both." 

I  had  a  vision  of  a  fastidious  young  Sultan,  handsome  and 
scornful,  sitting  on  Mademoiselle's  drawing-room  sofa,  and 
thence  surveying,  through  his  critical  eye-glass,  a  series  of  fair 
or  dark  girls  passing  before  him  with  their  most  fascinating 
looks,  -and  I  firmly  resolved  that  one  of  these  I  should  not  be. 
But  Mademoiselle  was  a  wilful  little  woman.  I  therefore 
merely  said  that  I  was  very  much  obliged  to  her,  and  that  I 
should  think  over  her  kind  proposal.  She  looked  at  me 
doubtfully. 

"  You  are  not  committed  in  the  least,"  she  said  ;  "  I  have 
told  him  nothing,  save  that  you  are  a  good  daughter,  a  charm- 
ing girl,  and  that  you  have  ten  thousand  francs.  He  does  not 
even  know  your  name,  nor  where  you  live,  nor  the  colour  of 
your  hair.  So  you  see,  Mignonne,  I  could  not  do  things  more 
delicately." 

I  repeated  that  I  was  very  much  obliged  to  her,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  changing  the  subject  of  discourse.  When  I  went  in, 
I  told  maman  all  that  had  passed,  and  protested  I  would  not 
go  and  be  looked  at. 

"  You  are  wrong,  my  dear,"  said  my  stepmother,  "  Made- 
moiselle's cousin  is  an  employe ;  I  believe,  in  a  worldly  point 
of  view,  it  would  be  a  good  match.  Besides,  what  do  you 
risk  or  lose  by  going  ?  Mademoiselle  has  managed  everthing 
so  well  that  you  are  not  in  the  least  committed.  You  will  be 
looked  at  by  a  man  who  does  not  even  know  your  name. 
Where  is  the  harm  1  Besides,  is  it  not  so  that  marriages  are 
managed  ?     You  must  not  be  romantic,  my  love." 

In  short,  I  was  talked  and  reasoned  into  compliance. 

But  when  the  evening  came  my  heart  again  failed  me,  and 
1  begged  of  maman  not  to  insist  on  my  meeting  that  Monsieur 
Renaud,  such  I  understood  to  be  his  name,  as  I  really  did  not 


SEVEN   TEAKS.  415 

feel  equal  to  the  effort.     She  shook  her  head,  and  said  that 
youth  would  be  romantic,  but  she  did  not  insist,  and  accord 
ingly  sent  in  a  few  words  of  apology  to  Mademoiselle. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I  FELT  rather  amused  at  the  idea  of  Monsieur  Renaud's 
disappointment,  and  a  little  curious  tc  know  how  he  had 
spent  his  evening.  Accordingly,  I  went  out  on  the  balcony 
early  the  next  morning,  and  had  scarcely  stepped  out  when 
Mademoiselle's  window  flew  open,  and  Mademoiselle  herself, 
heedless  of  curl  papers  and  night-cap,  appeared  with  as  much 
wrath  on  her  brown  face  as  could  ever  find  room  there. 

"  Oh  !  you  naughty  thing,"  she  said,  "  if  you  oidy  knew 
the  mischief  you  have  done  !  But  I  must  be  fair  ;  you  never 
could  imagine  it ;  no  one  could  :  it  is  that  odious  little  thing 
down-stairs!  Monsieur  Renaud  came  as  agreed.  I  recapitulat- 
ed all  your  good  qualities.  I  luill  say  it  to  vex  you.  I  told  him 
you  were  discreet,  prudent,  without  a  particle  of  vanity,  and 
that  you  were  to  wear  a  blue  dress.  Well,  he  sat  waiting, 
burning  with  impatience,  for  he  is  a  very  ardent  young  man, 
when  who  should  walk  in  but  Eugenie  and  her  mother,  and 
what  should  Eugenie  wear  but  a  blue  dress  !  I  made  sia;ns  to 
him  that  she  was  not  the  right  one,  and  concluded  all  was 
rignt ;  but,  my  dear,  I  was  so  provoked.  It  must  have  been 
the  horrid  little  thing  down-stairs  that  let  that  bold  little  flirt 
and  her  designintj  mother  know  there  was  a  future  husband 
then  with  me  !  How  they  behaved  I  will  not  tell  you  :  it 
was  disgraceful !  Eugenie  made  love  to  my  cousin  before 
my  very  eyes  !  If  you  had  only  come  in  ;  well — well — I 
have  not  had  many  such  evenings.  At  length  they  left,  and 
before  I  could  open  my  lij^s,  out  flew  my  cousin:  '  What  a 
charming,  artless  girl  !  I  declare  I  am  quite  smitten  !  '  'It 
was  not  the  right  one  ! '  I  screamed.  '  This  is  a  bold,  forward 
little  flirt.  I  tell  you  it  was  not  the  right  one.  She  could 
not,  or  rather  would  not,  come.'  '  Well,  then,  let  her  slay,' 
he  replies,  '  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  the  one  I  have  seen.'  I 
declare  I  cried  with  vexation  ;  but  he  only  laughed,  and  if  he 
marries  that  little  coquette,  I  shall  lay  it  all  to  you." 

I  was  half  amused  and  half  annoyed  at  this  account.  I  did 
not  care  about  Monsieur  Reuaud  ;  but  I  had  wanted  him  to  bo 
disappointed,  to  be  shown  that  girls  were  not  at  his  bidding  ; 
not  to  be  courted  by  a  Mademoiselle  Eugenie,  and  to  fall  in 


4:16  SEVEN   YEARS. 

love  with  her  forthwith.  However,  what  was  done  was  done, 
and  I  had  no  right  to  complain  if  another  had  prevailed  where 
I  had  not  attempted  to  succeed.  I  was  sorry  to  perceive,  how- 
ever, tliat  maman  was  quite  vexed.  "  You  will  never  get  on 
in  the  world,  my  dear,"  she  said,  a  little  sharply,  and  then  she 
chid  herself  for  this  little  burst  of  temj)er,  and  kissing  me, 
said  I  was  a  good  child  for  all  that. 

My  lesson  that  day  proved  particularly  disagreeable.  Made- 
moiselle Benoit  could  not  hold  her  peace  on  my  worldly-mind- 
edness  and  my  prudence ;  and  Monsieur  Everard,  who  was 
present,  could  not  help  dropping  hints  that  provoked  me  be- 
yond all  patience.  It  appeared  from  his  speech  that  artless, 
unassuming  modesty  was  the  charm  of  woman  in  his  eyes. 
With  a  sigh  Mademoiselle  Benoit  asked  what  woman  was 
without  that  ?  And  so  they  went  on  echoing  each  other,  un-til 
1  had  a  great  mind  to  get  u]3  and  walk  out.  I  did  not,  for 
several  very  excellent  reasons  ;  but  I  came  home  in  no  very 
pleasant  mood.  I  went  out  on  the  balcony,  certainly  in  no 
hopes  of  meeting  Mademoiselle,  but  there  she  was  however, 
bright  and  beaming  as  usual. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  have  such  news  for  you.  You 
know  what  I  told  you  about  my  cousin,  and  how  smitten  he 
was  with  Mademoiselle  Eugenie's  artlessness — " 

"  hideed.  Mademoiselle,"  I  interrupted,  feeling  vexed  at 
hearing  so  much  on  that  subject  in  one  day,  "  indeed  I  do  not 
care  about  Monsieur  Renaud  or  Mademoiselle.  I  am  de- 
lighted they  are  mutually  pleased ;  but  I  really  wish  to  hear 
no  more  about  them." 

Mademoiselle  looked  at  me  with  some  surprise. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  how  warmly  you  speak.  I  meant 
no  harm,  and,  moreover,  it  is  all  right.  My  cousin  called 
this  morning  to  beg  to  see  the  right  one,  and  to  assure  me 
that  when  he  professed  himself  so  pleased  with  Mademoiselle 
Eugenie,  he  was  only  joking — he  has  a  vast  deal  of  humour. 
In  short,  he  is  to  come  and  dine  with  me  this  evening,  and 
you  must  come  too." 

Maman  supported  this  suggestion  so  strongly,  that  I  waa 
obliged  to  yield.  It  was  Ufarly  dinner  time,  and  I  had  barely 
halt  an  hour  for  my  toilette.  I  said  anything  would  do,  but 
maman,  who  was  unusually  fastidious,  seemed  to  think  that 
nothing  could  do.  At  length  we  were  both  ready,  and  with 
some  trepidation  on  my  part,  we  crossed  the  landing,  and 
rang  at  Mademoiselle's  door.  Mademoiselle's  blooming  Nor- 
man servant-girl  opened  to  us  with  a  smile,  and  ushered  us 


SEVEN    TEAKS.  417 

in.  Mademoiselle  herself,  in  the  splendour  of  a  pink  cap,  and 
a  brown  silk  dress,  rushed  forward  to  meet  us,  and  clasped 
us  both  in  her  arms.  She  seemed  very  much  excited,  and 
almost  beside  herself. 

"  My  dears,"  she  exclaimed,  in  an  under  tone,  "  I  am  so 
glad.  My  cousin  is  burning  ^Yith  impatience.  He  is  a  very 
ardent  young  man.  I  am  sure  he  is  quite  in  a  fever  of  expec- 
tation.    I  know  I  was.     Pray  walk  into  the  drawing-room." 

If  I  had  not  felt  pretty  certain  that  the  fever  was  all  of 
Mademoiselle's  feelings  or  imagination,  this  speech  of  hers 
would  have  made  me  verj^  uncomfortable,  but  the  ardour  of  a 
man  who  searched  for  a  wife  in  the  methodical  fashion  adojited 
by  ]\Iademoiselle's  cousin  seemed  to  me  very  doubtful,  so 
doubtful  indeed,  that  there  was  scarce  a  flush  in  my  cheek 
when  I  followed  maman  into  the  drawinjc-room.  A  ffentle- 
man,  who  sat  looking  over  a  book  of  engravings,  rose  as  we 
entered.  He  looked  at  me,  and  I  looked  at  him.  I  saw 
Monsieur  Everard. 

"  My  cousin,  Monsieur  Everar,d  Renaud,"  said  Made- 
moiselle ;  "  Madame  Delmare,  her  daughter.  Mademoiselle 
Sylvie  Delmare." 

I  certainly  do  not  know  what  sort  of  a  feeling  sinking  in 
the  ground  produces  in  the  person  so  sunk,  but  it  seemed  to 
me  then  that  to  sink  through  the  polished  oak  floor  on  which 
I  stood,  and  vanish  no  matter  where,  would  have  been  pleas- 
anter  than  to  face  Monsieur  Everard.  True,  he  behaved  dec- 
orously and  well  ;  looked  grave  and  unconscious,  but  could 
I  forget  what  we  had  met  for,  and  could  he  1  Impossible,  we 
both  knew  it :  it  was  dreadful.  But  from  the  very  misery 
of  the  position  came  a  sort  of  relief.  I  felt  convinced  that  the 
quiet,  prudent  Monsieur  Everard,  so  strangely  described  as 
an  ardent  and  enthusiastic  young  man,  would  never  bestow  a 
second  thought  on  the  girl  of  whose  credulity  and  vanity  he 
had  obtained  such  recent  proofs.  This  quite  set  me  at  my 
ease.  Monsieur  Everard  was  no  one,  and  I  spoke  and  acted 
under  this  feeling.  The  dinner  went  oft'  very  well ;  the  even- 
ing was  pleasant.  M.  Everard  made  himself  agreeable,  Made- 
moiselle was  in  ecstasies,  and  maman  very  well  pleased. 

"  JNIy  dear,"  said  she,  when  we  retired,  "  I  like  that  ]\Ion- 
sieur  Renaud.  He  is  sensible:  ho  is  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
if  you  could  marry  him,  or  one  like  hiin,  I  should  be  well 
pleased." 

I   laughed.     '•  Dear  manuui,"  I  saitl,  "  JNIonsicur   Renaud 

18* 


418  8EYEN    TEAKS. 

and  Monsieur  Everard  are  one.  So  just  fancy  what  a  chanoe 
I  have  of  either." 

Mamaii  was  at  first  taken  aback,  then  she  said  she  did  not 
see  that.  I  interrupted  her  to  declare  with  some  warmth,  tliut 
though  I  was  sure  Monsieur  Everard  would  not  have  me,  yet 
even  if  he  would,  nothing  should  make  me  have  so  hard  and 
disagreeable  a  man.  Maman  sighed,  and  feared  1  was  roman- 
tic, but  did  not  insist. 

The  next  day  I  went  to  my  lesson  as  usual ;  Mademoiselle 
Benoit  was  with  her  lawyer,  and  the  said  lawyer  chose  to 
be  very  impertinent,  as  1  thought.  He  said  nothing  that  I 
could  quarrel  with,  but  his  looks  and  smiles,  when  Mademoi- 
selle Benoit  descanted,  as  usual,  on  my  merits  and  the  advan- 
tage 1  was  to  her  were  more  than  I  could  endure.  I  felt 
injured,  and  went  home  in  such  bad  humour  that  it  was  some 
time  before  I  perceived  maman's  pale  face,  that  still  bore  the 
trace  of  i-ecent  tears.  At  length  I  was  struck  with  both,  and 
going  up  hastily  to  her,  1  asked  what  had  happened. 

"  A  great  misfortune,  my  dear  child,"  she  replied,  in  a 
tremulous  tone. 

"  What  is  it,  maman  1 " 

"  The  agent  de  change,  to  whom  I  had  confided  my  rentes 
to  dispose  of,  has  absconded  to  Belgium." 

This  was  indeed  a  woeful  blow,  but  I  comforted  maman  as 
well  as  I  could.  I  besought  her  not  to  leave  me  for  either  of 
her  daughters,  who  did  not  want  her  as  I  did ;  then  I  said  it 
Avould  only  be  removing  to  a  cheaper  apartment  and  living  a 
little  more  frugally  ;  that  1  would  get  scholars  yet,  and 
"  classes  "  too,  and  that  all  would  be  comfortable.  She  re- 
fused for  a  long  time,  saying  she  had  no  claim  upon  me — 
which  I  warmly  denied — but  she  ended  by  yielding.  Dear 
maman  !  her  heart  was  sore  indeed,  but  she  did  not  wish  me 
to  think  her  own  children  would  be  loath  to  receive  her,  and 
I  felt  as  anxious  not  to  let  her  see  I  knew  the  bitter  truth. 

"  And  now,  maman,"  said  I,  "just  let  me  write  down  the 
name  of  that  agent  de  change.  Who  knows  but  Monsieur 
Everard  may  give  us  some  good  advice  ! " 

She  sighed  and  shook  her  head  as  she  uttered  the  name : 
"  Monsieur  Durand  of  Havre." 

The  pen  dropped  from  my  fingers.  Oh  !  it  was  too  much, 
too  much  indeed.     I  felt  it,  and  fairly  burst  into  tears. 

"  Sylvie  !  my  dear  child  !  what  is  the  matter  1 "  cried 
maman. 


SEVEN   TEAES.  419 

"  Alas  !  "  I  exclaimed,  weeping  still,  "  it  is  that  same  Mon- 
sieur Durand  who  has  got  my  money." 

We  passed  a  weary  evening,  endeavouring  to  comfort  each 
other,  but  feeling  sad  indeed.  Maman  was  more  distressed 
for  me  than  for  herself.  Every  time  her  eyes  fell  upon  me 
they  filled  with  tears.  I  knew  why.  The  home  which  would 
receive  her  would  be  closed  upon  me.     She  felt  it  keenly. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  deep  sorrow,  "  what 
would  your  poor  father  say  ?  " 

"  That  you  acted  for  the  best,"  I  replied,  kissing  her. 


CHAPTER  V. 

1  FEAR  my  eyes  were  still  red  when  I  called  the  following 
day  on  Mademoiselle  Benoit.  She  was  engaged  in  the  uncon- 
genial task  of  receiving  a  large  sum  of  money,  which  her  law- 
yer methodically  counted  over  to  her.  He  bowed  and  smiled 
— much  I  cared  about  his  smiling  ! — but  she  never  raised  her 
eyes  from  the  table  :  it  was  full  five  minutes  before  they  had 
done, 

"  There,  take  it  away,"  she  then  contemptuously  exclaimed, 
addressing  some  imaginary  worshipper  of  mammon.  But  no 
one  appearing,  she  rose  with  a  sigh  and  removed  the  treasure 
to  the  neighbouring  room,  whence  we  heard  various  sounds 
of  unlocking  and  locking  up  again.  I  thought  to  take  this 
moment  to  address  Monsieur  Everard,  whom,  for  many 
reasons,  I  wished  to  acquaint  with  what  had  happened  ;  but 
he  seemed  so  entirely  absorbed  by  his  law  papers,  and  as  he 
turned  them  over  his  countenance  looked  so  severe,  that  my 
heart  failed  me. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  suddenly  glancing  up  and  catch- 
ing my  look  before  I  had  time  to  withdraw  it,  "  do  you  feel 
unwell?" 

1  told  him  my  little  story  in  a  low  tone.  He  looked  con- 
cerned, and  took  both  the  name  of  the  agent  de  change  and 
our  address  ;  "  it  was  very  unfortunate  indeed  ;  "  and  his 
accent  was  more  kind  and  comj^assionate  than  I  could  have 
expected  from  him.  Mademoiselle  Benoit,  who  had  done 
locking  up,  had  no  such  weakness. 

"  What!"  she  exclaimed,  wilh  a  noble  disdain  of  riches, 
"  the  loss  of  the  vile  metal  called  gold  can  alTect  you  thus  1 
Oh  !  the  worldliness  of  this  world  ! " 

She  continued  to  comfort  me  by  dwelling  so  forcibly  on 


420  SEVEN    TEAES. 

the  charms  of  poverty  and  the  miseries  of  the  rich,  that  I 
would  have  concluded  the  agent  de  change  was  a  humane  and 
benevolent  philanthropist,  bent  on  relieving  me  and  my  fellow- 
victims  from  the  intolerable  burden  of  money,  if  the  worldli- 
ness  which  was  so  strong  within  me  had  not  absolutely  revolted 
against  any  such  conclusion. 

As  I  was  leaving  her,  Mademoiselle  Benoit  handed  me  the 
sum  of  forty  francs.  Our  "  lessons,"  as  she  was  pleased  to 
tei-m  them,  were  over  with  the  law-suit,  and  she  was  return- 
ing to  her  native  province.  She  warmly  thanked  me  for  the 
excellent  advice  I  had  given  her,  and  the  judicious  control  I  had 
exercised  over  her  feelings.  "  But,  my  dear  friend,"  said  she, 
as  we  parted,  "  pray  do  not  be  so  worldly  ;  it  dries  up  the 
heart." 

Thus  ended  my  brief  connection  with  my  first  pupil.  I 
advertised  again,  but,  alas  !  in  vain. 

Though  I  drew  up  a  prospectus  of  my  intended  "  classes," 
I  grieve  to  say  that  the  public  were  so  injudicious  as  not  to  be 
captivated  with  my  scheme.  The  classes,  in  short,  proved  a 
failure,  and  the  green  table  which  filled  all  our  drawing-room 
being  pronounced  a  perfect  bore,  was  on  the  point  of  being 
sold  to  a  broker,  when  jNlonsieur  Everard,  learning  our  inten- 
tion, purchased  it.  This  leads  me  to  observe  that  the  lawyer 
called  upon  us  almost  every  day,  to  tell  us  that  the  runaway 
agent  de  change  had  been  heard  of  or  would  be  heard  of  soon, 
or  had  not  been  heard  of  at  all.  This  did  not  mend  the  matter 
much,  but  maman  was  greatly  touched  with  his  disinterested 
zeal,  and  declared  to  me  she  had  never  met  so  kind  and  oblig- 
ing a  man.  It  vexed  her  to  perceive  that  he  did  not  stand 
very  high  in  my  favour ;  but,  to  be  candid,  the  little  he  did 
say  to  me  was  always  of  an  annoying  and  provoking  nature ; 
for  after  appealing,  on  one  jDoint  or  another,  to  my  prudence 
and  worldly  wisdom,  with  so  much  gravity  that  I  could  not 
but  think  Kim  in  earnest,  and  candidly  gave  him  my  opinion, 
he  would  suddenly  turn  round,  and  looking  at  me  from  under 
his  green  spectacles,  say  with  his  own  peculiar  smile  : 

"  And  so.  Mademoiselle  .Sylvie,  you  thought  you  were  the 
blonde  " — he  did  not  add  the  epithet  "  lovely,"  but  I  knew  he 
thought  it — "  ah !  well,  to  see  how  the  wisest  of  us  can  be 
deceived  !  " 

The  reader  must  not  imagine  that,  because  pupils  did  not 
come  and  "  classes  "  would  not  answer,  I  remained  idle.  No ; 
we  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  procure  sotne  embroidery  from 
a  large  shop,  and  we  worked  from  morning  till  night  to  eke 


SEVEN  TEAKS.  421 

out  a  scanty  subsistence.  I  was  grieved  to  see  maman  thus 
reduced  ;  for  my  part,  I  was  young,  full  of  hope,  and  did  not 
mind  it.  INever,  indeed,  had  I  been  so  happy.  What  were 
the  comforts  of  my  early  home,  when  maman's  heart  was 
estranged  from  me  ?  What  was  the  good  living  of  rny  poor 
god-mother's  house  compared  to  the  pleasures  of  this  humble 
home,  where  I  loved  and  was  loved  ?  For  maman  loved  m 
now :  I  saw  it  every  day  in  her  kindly  look,  and  heard  it  iti 
her  gentle  voice. 

I  had  come  home  one  evening  with  some  work,  when  I  found 
Monsieur  Everard  in  earnest  conversation  with  maman. 

"  Mademoiselle  Sylvie,"  said  he,  "  I  have  news  for  you." 

"Indeed,"  I  shortly  replied,  for  he  had  teased  me  about 
the  blonde  that  same  morning. 

"  Yes,  the  agent  de  change  was  arrested  this  morning,  hav- 
ing been  fool  enough  to  come  back  to  Paris.  I  am  happy  to 
say  Madame  Delmare's  rentes  were  all  found  upon  him." 

I  clapped  my  hands  and  kissed  maman.  "There,"  I  cried 
joyously,  taking  her  work  from  her,  "  let  me  never  see  you  at 
this  again." 

"  Be  quiet,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  you  have  not  heard  all 
Monsieur  Everard  has  to  say." 

"  Oh !  I  know,"  I  shrewdly  observed,  "  my  ten  thousand 
francs  are  found  too." 

"  Wisely  inferred,"  said  he,  with  a  smile,  "  but,  alas,  I 
grieve  to  say  your  ten  thousand  francs  are  gone,  quite  gone ; " 
and  he  spoke  as  if  he  felt  glad  of  it. 

I  felt  disappointed,  but  I  soon  rallied.  "Well,"  said  I, 
resolutely,  "  I  can  work  ;  cannot  I,  maman  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  dear,  but  you  have  not  yet  heard  Monsieur 
Everard." 

I  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise.  He  did  not  speak,  but 
fidgetted  on  his  chair,  coughed,  rose,  took  a  turn  across  the 
room,  then  came  back,  still  silent,  to  his  seat.  I  looked  at 
maman :  she  was  endeavouring  to  repress  a  smile. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  whilst  a  faint  tinge  of  colour  rose 
to  his  cheek,  "  I  was  explaining  to  Madame  Delmare,  when  you 
entered,  a  wish  I  have  for  some  time  entertained,  and  wliich 
has  obtained  her  approbation.  I  am  a  man  of  few  words  ;  for 
give  me  if,  without  further  preparation,  I  simply  ask  :  "  Will 
you  become  my  wife  1 " 

He  looked  at  me ;  I  remained  mute.  I  felt  astonished, 
and  not  triumphant,  reader,  but  very  much  touched.  I  was 
neither  rich  nor  handsome  ;  Monsieur  Everard  was  no  heedless 


422  SEVEN    TEAKS. 

romantic  man :  I  felt  it  was  not  common  affection  and  esteem 
had  urged  him  to  this  offer. 

"  Sylvie,"  anxiously  said  maman,  "  why  do  you  not  an- 
swer ?  " 

Monsieur  Everard  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  me  with 
evident  uneasiness.  I  had  remained  silent,  not  because  I 
knew  not  what  I  felt,  but  because  I  knew  not  how  to  say  it ;  I 
did  not  say  it  even  then,  but  simply  held  out  my  hand  to  him. 
lie  took  it,  and  with  more  gallantry  than  I  could  have  ex- 
pected from  him,  raised  it  to  his  lips.  I  turned  my  head 
away  that  he  might  not  see  my  eyes  filling  with  tears ;  Maman 
was  suddenl}'  seized  with  a  cold  in  her  head ;  even  Monsieur 
Everard  did  not  quite  succeed  in  preserving  a  business-like 
composure ;  but  we  all  three  felt  happy,  and  soon  recovered, 
each  keeping  up  the  pretence  of  not  feeling  a  bit  concerned. 

He  remained  to  dinner.  He  looked  a  little  awkward  :  I 
believe  that  in  his  heart  he  feared  I  would  retaliate  for  the 
past ;  but  ray  only  attempt  in  this  way  was  to  ask  for  the 
green  spectacles  to  be  removed.  They  vanished  at  my  bid- 
ding, and  allowed  me  to  perceive  that  the  eyes  they  shaded  had 
nothing  amiss ;  but  the  whole  countenance  looked  strange 
without  them ;  I  felt  it  thus,  and  before  ten  minutes  had 
elapsed  I  said  : 

"  Pray  put  on  your  spectacles  again." 

He  smiled  and  obeyed.  Our  courtship  was  brief;  it  was 
his  wish ;  it  was  maman's  wish  :  what  could  I  do  but  yield  up 
the  point  quietly  ? 

I  have  now  been  married  ten  years.  I  will  give  the 
reader  no  account  of  my  marriage  experiences,  but  simply 
describe  to  him  the  picture  I  behold  as  I  write.  It  is  winter  : 
my  husband  is  sitting  by  the  fire-side,  talking  to  Joseph,  our 
eldest  child.  In  her  easy  chair,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire- 
place, sits  my  dear  maman ;  ay,  mine,  though  no  drop  of  the 
same  blood  flows  in  our  veins.  A  child  is  on  her  knee,  a  lit- 
tle brunette,  whose  dark  hair  she  smooths  from  her  forehead 
with  a  gentle  touch  and  a  wistful  glance ;  but,  reader,  that 
child  is  not  mine ;  it  is  all  that  remains  of  her  poor  daughter 
Louise,  who  died  a  year  ago  the  broken-hearted  widow  of  a 
ruined  man.  Josephine  ofi"ered  to  bring  up  the  orphan  with 
her  own  children,  but  maman  jealously  refused.  She  went  for 
her  little  Louise,  brought  her  home,  never  allows  a  hand  save 
her  own  or  mine  to  touch  her,  and  is  always  tracing  in  her 
features  a  likeness  no  one  save  herself  can  see ;  for  Louise 
though  dark,  is  truly  pretty. 


SEVEN    rEAKS.  423 

My  child  is  that  little  blonde  who  now  endeavours  to  at- 
tract her  grandmamma's  attention  ;  and  see  how  maman  has- 
tens to  make  room  for  her  by  the  side  of  Louise,  and  tries  to 
look  as  if  one  were  not  dearer  than  the  other.  But  children 
are  restless :  Joseph  leaves  his  father,  and  Louise  immediately 
jumps  down  to  join  him  in  a  game.  Henriette,  happy  in  the 
exclusive  possession  of  her  grandmamma,  remains  nestling  with 
her.  But  though  maman  encircles  her  caressingly,  her  thought- 
ful look  still  follows  Louise.  She  smiles  at  her  joyous  spirits, 
at  the  patronizing  tone  of  Joseph,  at  the  affection  of  the  two 
children,  and  she  makes  for  the  future,  plans  which  I  read  with 
a  smile.  She  is  already  fidgetting  herself  to  know  whether 
Louise  will  be  rich  enough  for  Joseph  ;  she  is  projecting  impos- 
sible savings  out  of  her  narrow  ircome,  in  order  to  treasure  her 
up  a  dowry.  Dear  maman,  were  it  not  premature  to  speak  of 
such  a  thing, — Joseph  is  eight  and  Louise  live, — I  might  tell 
you  that  the  point  is  already  settled  between  myself  and  my 
husband.  Should  they  be  willing,  a  little  money  shall  neither 
prevent  the  happiness  of  two  loving  hearts  nor  the  fuliilment 
of  your  cherished  dream  :  that  the  child  of  your  child  may  be- 
come more  closely  linked  to  her  on  whom  you  have  so  long 
bestowed  the  name,  and  who  truly  feels  for  you  the  love  of  a 
daughter. 


IKK     END. 


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